


Pulse

by Tangerine



Series: Release/Pulse [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Medical Trauma, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-04-08
Updated: 1998-04-08
Packaged: 2019-03-17 23:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 52,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine





	1. Chapter 1

Shaking and crying as she crouched in a dark corner, clutching her stomach in weak protection of her unborn baby, Betsy fought to scream for help but found no words to fill her parched mouth. It was okay if she died, she was ready for it, but not her baby. Her baby hadn't even had a chance to live. 

"Please, I've done nothing to hurt you," she muttered through a broken jaw, aware of the blood seeping from a deep wound in her side. "If you want me dead, you can have me, but give me another month, another week. Let this baby _live._ " 

But he kept after her, slashing and clawing, ripping her apart, until, with blood spewing and her heartbeat waning, she fell for the last time, lying with eyes half open as death struck down two, and they were dead . . . 

* * *

Elisabeth Braddock didn't cry out as she woke from the horrid nightmare but stared blankly at the dark ceiling for hours until she found the strength to move. She dreamt like this every night, and she had for months, ever since the day Warren had died. 

The villains changed faces, for tonight it had been Sabretooth, yesterday it had been Sinister, and she feared who tomorrow might bring, but the plot itself never changed. She, and the child, died in every one. 

Her child, the flesh of her flesh, the fruit of her loins, was still an unknown to her. Every once in awhile, she'd catch its thoughts, if that's what they could be called, but the rest of the time, it was blank save for the knowledge something was there. It was like being watched without knowing where the eye lay. She didn't care for the feeling. 

Pushing slowly to a sitting position, she wiped the tears from her face with her palms then ran her hands over the huge bulge from her stomach. It had been a long seven months, torturous at times and rarely pleasant, but it had been a labour of love. In two months from this very day, her child would be born in this world. 

She stood slowly then just as carefully put on her robe and tied the belt around her swollen waist, and almost painfully, she strode over to the large window, which was open to the dark night, illuminating the room with a soft glow from the lights below. 

She had been in New York only two days, but she had yet to return home. She was almost afraid of Westchester, of the memories it would bring. She had been so happy there with Warren, for their love had blossomed in that glorious place, and she knew it would hurt her soul to be reminded of it, but she so hated being alone. 

Once again, the nagging thought that had followed her from England loomed in her head. She should have stayed with Brian and Meggan, she should have stayed at Braddock Manor and given birth to her baby there, but Brian and Meggan, their love and happiness in particular, sickened her with jealousy. It wasn't fair. Brain always got everything, and she rarely got anything. Her feelings were petty, but Brain had thought them reasonable and decided it would be better if she went were she was comfortable. 

Meggan was pregnant too it seemed, which delighted her brother and his fianceé to no end. They were already married in all senses of the word, save for legally, but that rarely mattered when people were in love. Another baby, so soon after the big mistake she had made. She had laughed at first when she heard it, but Brian and Meggan deserved this happiness. She thought, sometimes, she did not. 

Of course, this had yet to make her happy. 

The pregnancy hadn't been easy. In truth, it had been one, long period of time filled with upset, pain and uneasiness. She had almost lost the baby in the third month and again a week later, and the morning sickness had been so bad she had been hospitalised twice. The past four months had been strangely calm, though the pain was still there, dull and aching. It wasn't so much physical anymore as it was mental, and she had night visions of her baby's death and suffered because of it. 

The toll on her frame was tremendous. Doctor Woodrow had joked about the size of the child, saying it'd be a natural in American football, but Betsy had found little humour in it all. At seven months, she looked as though she might deliver any moment, and the strain on her lower back could be excruciating at points. Her feet were in a constant state of swelling, and she hadn't slept through the night in months. 

But she wouldn't trade the experience for anything else in the world. This child was hers, was Warren's, and for that reason alone, she would fight to her dying breath if she had to in order to preserve this baby's life. She loved it to the point it hurt, and she would never hate it or resent it. It was the only thing that gave her hope anymore. 

It was the only thing that could save her soul. 

Turning from the window, she stared at the room, sighing deeply then picked up a maternity dress. She hated all the pregnancy clothes, hated having to be so unfashionable, but it was one of the few things that fit anymore. She looked at though she was wearing a very shapeless bag and that she might burst from it at any moment. 

She brushed her hair quickly, tying it away from her face and threw on a thin layer of makeup to hide the dark bags under her purple eyes. She had never thought herself to be exceptionally beautiful, certainly not after the Kwannon incident which resulted in her being birthed in a stranger's body, but now, now she saw something that hadn't been in her eyes for a very long time. It was hidden at times behind the despair, and more often still it was clouded by the tears, but life burned in the dark purple, the undeniable joy of life. 

It was hard to live as this, bouncing violently between severe bouts of glorious love for life and utter despair for the same thing. Even when she found her heart free from the pain and sadness her life had become synonymous with, she still remembered Warren and his death. 

He had been released; she had been condemned. 

She remembered his body and how it looked after his death. She had sat with him for hours, crying without knowing, singing without hearing, breathing without living, until Brian had found her and tore her away from him. He had been so beautiful then, so free and gorgeous. Why couldn't he have been like that in life? She loved him so much, but not even that had freed him from the hate and darkness that dwelled deep in his soul. She was glad to have seen him as he truly was. 

Betsy slipped on her shoes, wincing as she tried to forced her bloated feet into the tight shoe. She remembered when wearing high-heels had been child-play and now loafers equalled hell to her. The endless ironies of life, she supposed, though found no humour in the realisation. Life wasn't funny, she'd noticed. 

Betsy sat by the phone and slowly picked up the receiver, listening a moment for the dial tone then tapping in the numbers. It rang shrilly in her ear, crying to be picked up like a newborn baby would. 

"Hello?" 

She paused, suddenly unsure if this person had been the right one to call, but she needed someone to understand, she needed something to talk to that would pass no judgement and knew her pain. "Charlotte Jones?" 

There was another hesitation, this time on Charlotte's part, then a "Betsy?" 

Betsy wrapped the cord around her finger, wondering what had given it away. Probably the accent, she decided, the accent always gave her away. "Yes." 

"It's _nice_ to hear from you, I mean that," Charlotte added gently. "How have you been, Betsy? Are you okay?" 

"I am _surviving,_ " Betsy confessed, "coping with his death as best I can, but sometimes it seems like even that isn't enough to save me." Betsy's fingers danced upon her belly, sweetly caressing the child within. "Charlotte, if you're not busy, do you suppose we could meet for tea?" 

"I'm not busy," Charlotte replied, "and I'd love to meet with you. Where?" 

"I saw a quaint little tea shop on the drive from the airport, the English Rose, I think it was called," she murmured, wondering why she had been compelled to do this. She barely knew Charlotte, yet now, in her time of need, she was the only Betsy would ever dream of calling. She would never understand why she did the things she did. 

"A couple women from work and I have been in there. It's nice, quiet and private. I'll see you around one?" 

"Yes, one would be good." They exchanged their goodbyes and Betsy hung up the phone, relieved somewhat that Charlotte had consented to meeting her. It wasn't like her to be so shy and removed, but something had changed in her when Warren died, something she wasn't sure could ever be reborn. 

Locking her door, she walked slowly down the hall, clutching her purse tightly without realising it. She had nothing to fear from these so-called ruffian New Yorkers, but it was more habit than anything else. She had the tendency to cling to things. 

The weather was warm, especially for late June, and it made her uncomfortable. She detested the warmth, especially the affect it had on her skin and hair. If it remained this sweltering and hot, she was sure her pregnancy would only become more unbearable. 

She wished she could purge these negative thoughts from her mind, but try as she might, they remained where they were. She tried to replace them with happier memories, but it rarely helped. The sadness and despair always returned, worse than before. 

Even when she had lost her body to Kwannon and found herself in this new Asian one, she had never felt despaired. Regretful, certainly, sad, maybe, definitely out of place and uncomfortable, but never depressed about it. It had happened, and there was nothing she could do to make it otherwise, but now she couldn't shake her depression. She pondered medication, thinking maybe it would do something to lighten her spirits, but she never found the time, and there was always an excuse handy to convince herself the despair would leave eventually. 

She caught the eyes of a woman, clearly reading the deeply-hidden pangs of envy from the stranger's mind. Betsy was amazed how women who could not have children reacted to her, consciously or not. The feelings were never violent, never spiteful, but more longing and sad that a baby had been denied to them. She had never noticed that before. 

She was realising a lot of things she had never seen, and it always surprised her, the things people felt when they saw her. Other parents thought sweetly of their children, while couples trying to conceive felt their desires grow stronger. She felt the awe of children when they saw her, and she always picked up unspoken comments from various people regarding her size when they asked how many months along she was or pity about the fact she was unwed and pregnant. She could never bring herself to explain what had happened to the father, thinking, in some part, they didn't deserve to know, and feeling also that if she didn't admit it, it couldn't possibly hurt as much. Feeling what they felt, the immense pity that she didn't want, was only a small part of that. 

Betsy hailed a cab with only the slightest help from her telepathic powers and eased herself into the car, pulling the strap over her shoulder to buckle herself safely in. Sitting back against the comfortable seat, she caught the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. 

"How far along are you?" The driver asked in a faint Yorkshire accent. It wasn't enough to affect his speech, but she caught it nonetheless, thinking fondly of England and all she had left behind. 

"A bit beyond seven months," Betsy replied, glancing out the window at the people as they whirred by in their busy little lives. If they knew she was a creature they feared, she wondered what they would do. 

The driver smiled, drumming his fingers across the steering wheel. "I have a baby," he confessed with a grin of pride, "a daughter, only two months old. She's a precious little thing with the biggest blue eyes you'd ever seen." 

Betsy nodded gently, smiling slightly as the overzealous memories of his daughter poured from his mind into hers. She was quite a doll, Betsy saw, definitely one of the cutest babies she had ever ‘viewed'. She could see why he would be proud. 

"I was terrified when my wife said she was pregnant, horrified I wouldn't be a good father or that Claire, that's my daughter, would be embarrassed of me because I wasn't rich and drove a cab for a living. My wife insisted that I was her father and had given her life would be enough, and the moment she was born, I knew I needn't have worried. Her heart could never hate a soul, it is too pure for that." 

"I think sometimes my baby might hate me too," Betsy confessed to this man, glad to be able to talk to somebody without ever having to see him again. Sometimes, strangers were better than friends. "I will not be bringing it into the world I want for it." 

"You're his mother, he'll understand," the driver grinned, "or she. Where in England are you from, ma'am? I noticed your accent, and I thought you might be from Manchester, but the pitch is a little off." 

"A tiny manor in the countryside, a few kilometres from Manchester, actually. I attended finishing school with several girls from Manchester and picked up the accent then." 

"My wife's from that area. We thought we might have a chance at a better life in America, perhaps escape the poverty we were in, but even now, sometimes I doubt it made that much of a difference. My wife has grandparents in Canada, so we'll head there when we have the money. They've offered their house, but we've no funds to get there. I want my daughter to grow up with a house and a strong family, something I and my wife never had." 

"She's lucky to have a family to support her," Betsy commented, realising her child too would have a family, but not the traditional one. The X-Men would have to make up for the gape Warren has left in both their lives. 

"I'm sure the baby's father and yourself will make your child just as lucky." 

Betsy felt the sadness stab her heart like a knife, plunging deep through her muscle into her soul. She should just lie to him, make it seem like the father was of no concern, but whenever she did that, she felt as though she was disgracing Warren's memory. "The father knew he was a lucky man to the day he died." 

The cabbie looked back, a look of remorse on his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think. I apologise, ma'am, and offer my respects to his memory." 

"How could you have known? It's not your fault." Betsy discarded his apology easily, placing her hands crossed upon her stomach, feeling the baby swim inside her. "His memory will not die, and my baby will know him through me." 

"She's lucky to have you, then, to let her know that. I never knew my father, and I regret sometimes my mother never found the time to tell me about him." The cabbie looked to the road in mild surprise. "What do you know? Here we are, ma'am." 

"How much do I owe you?" 

The cab driver shook his head. "Nothing, ma'am, you've been a pleasure to talk to." 

"Do you take cheques?" 

"Honestly, ma'am, it's not necessary." Betsy raised her eyebrows in question, urging him to answer her query. "From you, ma'am, yes." 

Betsy scribbled her pen across the paper, attempting to be as neat as she possibly could then tore it from the book. "What's your name?" 

"Calvet Archer." 

Betsy nodded, filling in the last of the spaces and handed it to the man, placing the items back into her purse. The man choked slightly, his eyes bulging from their sockets, and he turned to her, ready to protest her gift. 

"Ma'am," he began but she shook her head. 

"Call me Betsy, please," she insisted. "I have more money than I care to have, mostly from the father, so let me do this for you. With this money, you can move to Canada and get a life for your daughter, and if you need a job, there are several companies I have part ownership of. Just call me, and I'll arrange something." 

"But this is too much even for me to accept," he protested mildly, pushing the cheque weakly back towards her. "It would be wrong. I haven't earned it." 

"Nor have I earned what I've had. I was left this in a will, all of a worldwide Enterprise and several smaller companies, and though my brother has control of most of it, I have my share, and I haven't any idea of what to do with it. Take it, please, Warren would have wanted to help you, and so do I." 

Finally, the man nodded mutely, watching her silently as she got out of the car and began to walk towards the tea shop door. Turning back to view the road, he pushed his foot on the accelerator and sped off, catching a look of the purple-haired woman as she watched him going, smiling sweetly like an Angel.


	2. Chapter 2

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light within the cafe. It was dim and dark in corners where she was sure unimaginable horrors were hidden. The shadows still held some allure to her, she still felt their call though she had not used them in months. In fact, the last time she had relied on her shadow power at all was during her confrontation with Apocalypse, and she'd rather forget that whole experience. 

The dark still terrified her, so she slept with the lights on and blinds pulled open. She thought now she was just doing it out of sheer paranoia, for the cries of the blackness were quieter than they had once been, the song was not quite as strong, but they still reacted to her. She saw how they lurched whenever she passed by. 

She loved being a mutant or mystical creature or whatever it was her body had become, but part of that worried her. She had relied on them too long, and now she refrained for the sake of the baby but it was like an addiction: hard to stop completely and always there in the back of her mind. 

She sat down at a table by the window, ready to wait. She was, after all, an hour early. In her mind, she felt the people around her take slight notice then return to their tiny little lives. She had been seventeen when her powers had come into full swing, but they had been building for some time. In truth, she knew the moment she had been blessed with awareness that she wasn't like the other children. God had made her special.  

* * *

Betsy ran ahead of Brian, resisting the urge to push her quiet brother into the river that ran alongside the English road and climbed on the wall separating them from the water. "Brian! Come look, the sight's marvellous!" 

"Betsy, get down, please," Brian said wearily, clutching his books, and hers, tightly to his slender chest. At seventeen years old, he had yet to fill out anywhere but up, and his gangly form sometimes took away from his handsome face. 

"But Brian, look!" She pointed across the moors, bringing a hand to shield her eyes. "Look! The sun's just beautiful this time of year. The colours are magnificent. I've never seen a purple sky before. Isn't it lovely?" 

"Yes, yes, now come down here," he urged, standing at her feet but refusing to look up in fear he might catch an unwanted glimpse of her knickers. "Betsy, please, you've got to start acting your age and become a lady." 

"Pah!" She exclaimed, hopping down to stand beside her brother, and she grabbed him tightly, hugging him and squeezing tightly until he finally dropped his books. "You've got to loosen up, you're beginning to sound like mother and father, and you're too young for that yet. Come, Brian, climb up here with me. Please?" She added slyly, grinning until Brian finally broke down and nodded slightly. 

Brian threw one of his long legs on the brick and proceeded to pull himself up beside Betsy who had climbed up the wall like an alley cat in London. Brushing the dirt off his uniform, he stared where she looked. "It's nice." 

"Nice?" Betsy scoffed at him, hitting him on the arm. "It's beautiful! Look at the colours, look at how peaceful it is. How often do we see things like this, Brian? Never because we're always locked up in that horrible school, and it's ever so boring, Brian, and you don't have to wear this horrid kilt." She held out the feet of material that hung from her hips. "Someday, someday I'm going to get away from here and have a life of adventure. I want to pilot a plane, I want to be a model, I'm going to marry someone as rich as I and we'll be the richest and most admired couple in all the country. Everybody is going to wish they were me, Brian. I'm tired of this dull life. I want something more." 

"You already have more than most people, Betsy, just leave things as they are." 

Betsy frowned and opened her mouth to respond before a wave of pain hit her head and she winced, muffling her cry. She had been having headaches since she was young, and for years, they had not been anything that she worried about though no doctor could ever explain why she got them, but for the past few months, they had grown in their severity and their length, and she began to suspect something might seriously be wrong. 

"Another headache?" Brian asked gently, helping her down from the wall and led her to sit on the soft grass. She nodded slightly, shielding her eyes from the bright sun in the distance. "Perhaps you should tell mother or father, Betsy, it could be serious." 

"No," she muttered, blinking slightly as she brought her hand into her lap to join the other. "I'm fine. See? It doesn't hurt anymore. Please don't worry, Brian," she added in caution, fearful he might tell someone else of their secret, but her painful wince gave her away and Brian face grew more grim. 

_Please, Brian, I am sure it's nothing,_ she insisted, patting his hand away, then looked up in surprise as he tore his arm from her grasp and his eyes widened in shock. "What? What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost." 

Brian stared at her. "You said that in my mind!" 

Betsy raised a blonde eyebrow then laughed. "Stop fooling, Brian, you were scaring me!" 

"I wasn't kidding," Brian murmured, bringing a hand to his forehead, "and it really hurt, Betsy, my head is throbbing. I don't pretend to understand what it was you did, but I clearly heard your words in my mind." 

Betsy's face lost her grin and turned pensive, thoughtful as she looked intently at him. "Are you sure, Brian? If this is a joke, I can assure you it isn't funny." 

"I wouldn't toy with you like that," Brian mumbled, his lips tightly pursed as he closed his eyes tightly, leaning his head away from Betsy, who moved beside him, pulling his hands from his face so she could see him. 

"You're crying?" She spoke softly, using her sleeve to wipe the tears from his face. "I hurt you, didn't I? I'm sorry, Brian, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Will you be okay? Should I take you to Doctor Woodrow?" 

Brian shook his head, his well-kept hair unusually untidy. "I'll be fine." 

"I don't believe you," Betsy said, pulling him so he stood. "I hurt you, and I have to do something to help you. How bad is it? Can you walk? Perhaps Jamie can help. He knows things about headaches and such." 

Brian said nothing but winced, attempting to muffle a painful groan. "Lord, Betsy, it really hurts. It's as if my brain is on fire. I'm not sure if I can make it home." 

"I did this," she muttered angrily, sitting him back down, "and perhaps I can undo it. Do you trust me enough to let me try that again, Brian?" 

"Need you even ask that of me?" He replied, catching her eyes, and she nodded, placing her hands on either side of his head. She wasn't sure, but her intuition told her it might work better with physical contact. 

Narrowing her blue eyes, she concentrated on his mind, on her own, on bringing them together, and for a handful of long, apprehensive seconds, nothing happened, but then there was flash of something, of understanding, of power. 

_Brian?_ She tried, and Brian almost pulled away but nonetheless stayed where he was with a visible struggle with the immense pain. Betsy saw the fight and toned down the force but increased the concentration. _Is that better?_

Having brought his hands on either side of hers as to shield himself, Brian nodded and relaxed slightly. Betsy took this as a good sign and once again reduced the power but increased the concentration she applied to his mind. 

Poking around cautiously inside his mind, she began to see things with eyes she never knew she had, and suddenly the world itself opened up. Caught unaware, she fell backwards, breaking the link with Brian. 

"Betsy?" Brian cried out, but she shook her head, her quiet way of saying she was unhurt, and he fell back to nurse his own headache, which still hurt but was dying in intensity and pain with every passing moment. 

Betsy opened her mind's eye again, and for the first time in her life, she saw Brian as more than what he looked like and said, but as what he felt and thought, and she was awed by it. Brian always seemed so uninterested in life, in anything other than school, but she felt now, deep within him, there was a fire and passion burning. Someday, he'd come into his own and be a great man. 

But even his body no longer looked for the same, for it was now coloured with vibrant shades and values of light, which flowed in and out of him and formed the pictures which allowed her to see his mind. It was not so much that she could see, but she could feel that they were there, she saw without even having to open her eyes. She had been given the gift of sight, and she knew she would never lose it.  

* * *

Betsy smirked slightly at the memory, for it had proven true. Her eyes had been torn from her sockets by Slaymaster, effectively leaving her blind, but she never lost her sight, she never stopped seeing the reality, even if it was slightly altered. 

"Can I get you anything while you wait?" The waitress asked, startling Betsy out of her recollections. Betsy shook her head slightly, turning away from the smiling face. It was obvious the girl was over-worked, tired and stressed to a breaking point, and Betsy couldn't bear to look at a face so false. "Okay, if you need anything, just call me over. I'll be happy to help." 

Betsy paid little mind to her, thinking maybe she should use her telepathy and ease the girl's weight, but she figured that would be unethical, according to Professor Xavier anyway, but then again, Xavier wasn't here. Betsy had no idea where the founder of the X-Men had disappeared to, and frankly, she really didn't care. 

A soft pink light flashing to life around her head, she focussed on the woman's mind, drawing out the stress and the headache and replacing it with more energy, more determination that she could get this job done without first going mad. There, that hadn't been so hard, and she hadn't harmed anybody. 

The door opened, letting the slightest breeze into the still tea shop, and Betsy didn't have to turn around to know Charlotte had arrived, in fact, she had known the moment Charlotte had stepped out of the car into the sweltering heat, when she had stubbed her toe on a garbage bin outside, when she thought for the seventh time that meeting with Betsy was strange, odd when they had never paid any mind to each other in the past. Betsy knew everything she had done. There were no secrets. 

Charlotte was in for the surprise of her life. 

Betsy stood slowly, gripping the table to aid her in her desire to stand on her two feet, and she turned to face who Charlotte, who nearly fell to the ground in surprise but managed to stay upright, gaping and speechless. 

Betsy had never intended to keep her pregnancy a secret, but it had happened anyway. She had secluded herself these past few months, having contact with only Meggan, Brian and her doctor, so not a soul was aware of her current state. Sometimes, it made dealing with her grief easier and other times, it made her soul ache because she was alone. 

"So he didn't die after all," Charlotte finally said, breaking the silence that had passed between them. 

"Not entirely," Betsy conceded quietly. 

"That's good to know." Charlotte sat down at the table, placing her purse to the side beside Betsy's as Betsy dropped her body into the chair. "It's harder than you thought, isn't it? I married my husband knowing full well he was a cop and he could die, but I tried not to think about that. When he did die, Lord, that was like a kick in the gut. I thought I had dealt with the reality of that, and I had, but that didn't make his dying any easier to take." 

"I knew for so long he was going to die," Betsy admitted, closing her eyes. "We talked about it, discussed it, and I promised him I wouldn't let the grief consume me, but I have, and it hurts so much, all the time, never ending." 

"It'll never end, Betsy, but it will dull in time, have faith in that." 

"I'm sure it will." She had not intended for her voice to be so laced with heavy, bitter sarcasm, so it surprised her when Charlotte reeled back in mild distaste, a thousand unspoken words racing through the officer's head, and all of which Betsy was reluctantly privy to. 

After a few brief moments of uncomfortable apprehension, Betsy's voice, dull and mournful, spewed out, "I'm sorry. I did not wish for it to sound so cruel, but it did nonetheless. Forgive me, I fear I have no control over the black cloud that follows me everywhere. I'm so sorry." She buried her head in her hands tearfully. "I'm so sorry." 

Charlotte placed a gentle hand on Betsy's shaking wrist, softly pulling her hands away. "You don't need to apologise." 

"But I must!" Betsy protested sadly. "From the inception of this pregnancy, I have slowly been losing a part of me. It's not my soul, I'm sure of that, but I fear it is my mind. Every day, it becomes harder and harder to keep the voices out and me in. There are times where I can no longer tell who is me and who isn't. We all sound the same to my ears. I'm going mad." 

Charlotte remained silent, wondering what the British ninja and mother-to-be expected of her. They were strangers, but Betsy had, for some unknown reason, chosen Charlotte as her confident, and it baffled her. 

Charlotte's expression grew more troubled as she caught the woman's purple eyes with her own. There was something in them that she couldn't recognise, something that Betsy held in her that wasn't quite human, and it frightened her. 

"You see it, then?" Betsy asked softly. "You see what I see. Nothing's the same, everything has changed! I'm no longer human, no longer mutant. The shadows are still and silent, but I know they are there, watching me, waiting for me to remember them, and at times, I recall the peace they gave me, the freedom, the release. I want that. I want it all, but I don't want to lose myself. I'm so tired of this, of life, of living." 

"Don't say that!" Charlotte said firmly, taking a grasp of the situation before Betsy lost total control. "Don't you ever say that! You have a baby growing inside of you, a tiny life that is depending on you to deliver it safely into this world, and if you give up, it is not you that loses everything. It is that baby's, Warren's baby." 

Betsy shrank away from the harsh words. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I never mean it. It isn't me. It isn't me!" 

"Who is it then?" Charlotte asked, her patience waning. "And while we're at it, can you explain to me what I'm doing here? Do you expect me to be an audience to your lunacy? Or is it a case of the big bad mutant wanting to scare the shit out of the tiny, insignificant human? Huh, Betsy, why am I here?" 

"I'm not a mutant," Betsy murmured, brushing her dishevelled hair back into the ponytail. 

"Why am I here?!" 

"I didn't know who else . . ." 

Charlotte cut her off, raising a hand to silence the woman. "Why?" 

"You knew him, you loved him, I was . . . I think I was hoping to feel a glimpse of that, to be reminded because I can feel myself forgetting him. He's like a memory, now, a fading memory and I don't know how much longer I can hold onto him. I only wanted you to remember what I could not. I'm sorry." 

It was only then that Charlotte stopped focussing only on Betsy and finally turned her attention to the other patrons in the cafe. Much to her surprise, they seem to be paying no mind to them whatsoever. It was almost as if they were invisible to the patrons, as if their eyes . . . 

"Could not see us," Betsy finished the thought. "They can't. My mind won't allow them to see us in other way that is we were talking softly over tea." 

Charlotte grabbed her purse and stood up rigidly, seething in anger. "The next time you are in the mood to screw around with somebody, Betsy, it better not be me. In fact, I would recommend you forget my number right now." 

She stomped out of the cafe, turned left at the street and disappeared out of view, and Betsy, watching her go, turned back to her imaginary cup of tea and stared as the demons in her soul began to slowly emerge, one by one, like an army, ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to forget themselves in the darkness of despair.


	3. Chapter 3

The fog of sadness lasted into the night, and by the time Betsy finally returned back the hotel room, she felt almost lost. It was dark and quiet, and it frightened her because of the shadows and the danger they presented. She knew she was losing to them again. She could feel herself slowly ebb away into a memory. How long would it be until she finally gave in and let them take her? 

The baby chose that exact moment to kick, sharp and strong against her rested hand, and Betsy looked down slowly, afraid that it had sensed her thoughts. "Are you afraid of the shadows, baby? Don't be, sweetheart, I won't let them get to me, not until you're born and I lose my control over you. You're safe from them for now." 

After a minute more of movement, the child chose to stay at rest, and Betsy stroked her belly with gentle fingertips as she travelled around the room, turning on every light she could see. Betsy sat on the bed, kicking off her shoes and slowly undressing. 

Glancing absentmindedly in the mirror, she stood to examine herself more closely. She had to admit that motherhood and pregnancy had given her a glow of life. Her belly swelled with expectant anticipation and her breasts were bloated with nurturing milk, and she was beautiful. 

But she was nothing without Warren. 

Betsy closed her eyes tightly, clenching her fists as she resisted the urge to scream out for him. Sometimes, she loved him still so much it hurt, but other times, she hated him for leaving her, for letting Apocalypse play God with his life, for being too weak to find a way to save himself, but she was also angry at herself, angry for never saying stop, for not finding a way to save him before he died. And now, in the aftermath, she asked herself: would he have been saved by the Crimson Dawn? Should she have even tried to do that to him? Would it have been enough? Or would it have done to him what it had done to her? Would it have destroyed him? 

Sighing, she walked to the open window. She would never know the answer to those questions. Warren was dead, and with him, a part of her. It hurt so much, and at times, she forgot that he was gone until life slapped her hard in the face, forcing her to realise she was alone and lonely. 

"Warren?" Betsy called quietly, bringing her fingers to her pale lips, remembering how his sweet kiss had felt against that cold flesh, remembering how he used to silence her with a touch of his lips against hers. " _Warren._ " 

"Elisabeth," a voice responded with a whisper, and Betsy turned around quickly, pulling a sheet to her naked body as a sort of flimsy shield to protect her from whatever could bring her harm. "Did I scare you? I expect you never thought you'd happen upon me again, but you were mistaken, Elisabeth." 

"Sinister," Betsy said darkly, her purple eyes narrowing suspiciously, and she moved from her spot defensively as Sinister began to walk. "What are you doing here? I want you to leave me alone, do you hear me? I want nothing to do with _you!_ " 

"Calm down, Elisabeth," Sinister said gently with a calm motion of his silver hand, for he had gone without gloves today. In fact, Betsy could not recall ever seeing the monster dressed casually, like he could possibly be human. "I've merely come to see how you're doing." 

"I don't want you here! Get out! _Get out!_ " Betsy screamed, the shadows lurching at her angry tone, begging to be freed, to be allowed to attack the visitor. Betsy, sensing this violence, stepped back and forced herself to calm down. Even the child within raged as she did, seething with hatred for the villain, and she could not have that. It was too young to hate and despise people as she did. 

"Elisabeth," Sinister spoke sharply, grabbing hold of one arm as it stretched out toward him, "this will not do the least amount of good. You are not simply thinking about yourself anymore. You have this baby to consider." 

"I know that!" Betsy snapped, tearing her arm from his grasp. "You think I don't know that? And that's what I'm doing now, protecting this child from you! I know you, Sinister, I know what you've done to the Summers!" 

"That hardly applies here, Elisabeth." Sinister chuckled coldly and sat down in a chair by the desk, crossing a leg over the opposite knee and placing his fingers together, bringing them to his lips, letting them rest there. "Can't I come here merely to check upon you and your X-Man- to-be?" 

Betsy bit her bottom lip and drew blood, fighting the urge to gut him. "That would imply I trust you, Sinister, and I don't." 

"You don't trust me? I'm hurt." Sinister grinned slightly, relaxing in his chair, bearing his white, angular teeth. "And you have every right not to trust me. In fact, I'd advise you to be suspicious of my every attempt, save for this one." 

"That's not very reassuring, Sinister." 

"Call me Nathaniel, Elisabeth." 

Betsy turned away from him, pulling the blanket further around her, making it her armour against his deceitful presence. She didn't like being tainted like this. She didn't want to be around such uncontrolled evil. "What do you want, then?" 

"Apocalypse, has he come after you?" 

"I haven't seen him since . . . since . . ." her voice trailed off and filled with regret. She had never thought she'd be able to wound the mighty Apocalypse, but she had, and now, his blood was on her hands and her death was on his. She had condemned herself, and she knew, though she might fight, she would never again beat Apocalypse. 

"That was a very dangerous thing you did," Sinister commented quietly, "and you have sentenced yourself to death, or, at the very least, a life of extreme torture and pain. I wish you wouldn't have done that." 

"You do?" It was Betsy's turn to laugh. "And why? You wanted to take a stab at him first? Well, rest assured, _Nathaniel_ , he's not dead, and he'll be back. You'll have your shot then, I only hope I live to see it." 

Sinister stood and moved so he was face to face with Betsy and he placed a warm hand to her face. She tried to move, but something stopped her and forced her to remain placid before his cold face. "I've gone after him, Elisabeth, and look at me," Betsy closed her eyes but Sinister shook her head forcefully, "look at me! Unable to die and destined to live as a cold monster. You may think me cruel, but not even I would want to inflict such unexplainable horror on my greatest enemy." 

Betsy looked away for a moment, unsure if she could believe him, but something told her, he spoke nothing but the truth this time, this time. "Why are you telling me this? Don't expect me to believe you have my well-being at heart." 

"To speak bluntly, you are none of my concern, Elisabeth, I could care less about what happens to you. As it stands, I think you should be eliminated because you are a threat to the survival of me. You have power someone of your stature should not, and one day, I will kill you if only to save my own hide." 

"You bastard," Betsy growled, tearing her face from his touch. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I let you slaughter me." 

"Or somewhat sooner," Sinister murmured, "but that is not what I've come here for, Elisabeth, and you gave me the answer I wanted to hear. Consider this my warning, Apocalypse will not rest until you have been destroyed." Sinister's eerie eyes narrowed slightly, resting upon Betsy's stomach. "And he has that child." 

Pulling a robe around her frame, Betsy closed her eyes tightly, letting a small sound of defeat escape from her dry lips. "I just can't win, can I? Whether it is you or Apocalypse or the Mandarin or some other vile creature that wants from me what they cannot have, my life will never be my own, will it?" 

"No, for your child is very special to him, Elisabeth. You should have heeded my warning and aborted it when you had the chance. It was wrong of you to let it grow as it has." 

"Don't you tell me I made a mistake! Wrong would have been killing this child simply because monsters like you exist. This baby is the last vestige I have of Warren, and I can promise you, Nathaniel, neither you nor Apocalypse nor anybody else is going to lay their hands on it." 

"And you think you are strong enough for this?" 

"I'm stronger than even you can imagine, Sinister." Betsy sat upon the bed, looking down to rest her eyes from his unending stare then rising them back to his level. "I am weak in body now, but my power has never come from there, and my mind is as sharp as it's ever been. Don't let my appearance fool you." 

Sinister smiled slightly. "I wouldn't dream of it, Elisabeth, and I would warn you not to underestimate me because of what your eyes tell you. In the coming storm, I may be the only friend you have when all others turn against you." 

"And what of the X-Men? Will they not be my _friends?_ " 

"But will they be able to help, and will they want to? You are a part of something now they are not involved with. You are a part of a long battle that goes back hundreds, and for Apocalypse, thousands of years. The moment Warren became a part of this, any child of his would be forever condemned, and the moment you decided to love him and give him this child, it, too, became your destiny. I've been there, Elisabeth, and I hate dear old Apocalypse as much as you do, so remember that. I am willing to be your ally in this." 

"And that's supposed to be a good thing?" Elisabeth laughed lightly, bringing a hand to her temple. "For some reason, I'm not at all reassured by that offer. I don't care what you do, Sinister, so long as you leave me and this baby out of it." 

"That's an impossible thing to wish for!" Sinister said suddenly, grabbing her hand away from weary face. "You are not understanding what I am saying. You are never going to be freed from this! Warren had his release, he found a loophole, but even that is not destined to stay as it is! You think Apocalypse would simply let him go like that? You think I couldn't bring him back if I wanted?" 

Betsy's violet eyes flared in anger, and she backhanded Sinister, feeling the sting of his flesh against her skin and knowing it would have little effect on a man whose very mortality was in question. "You will leave him dead!" 

Shocked she would even try what she did, Sinister brought a hand to his silver face, touching where she had contacted him. "You hit me? You _hit_ me?" Sinister chuckled loudly, falling into a chair. "You hit me! Elisabeth, I did not think you had something so stupid in you. Rest assured, Psylocke, I will not bring him back unless it serves my needs, and as it stands, it does not. But I can tell you, Apocalypse will make no such promise." Sinister laughed again, shaking his head in utter disbelief, muttering under his breath, "she hit me." 

"Do not laugh at me," Betsy growled under her breath, moving to hit him again but paused painfully mid-step. One hand moved to grasp her belly as her mouth open slightly in a silent scream. In a blink of the eye, Sinister was out of his chair and grabbing her before she could fall. 

"Damn you, Elisabeth," he murmured, lifting her into his arms. She protested weakly, trying in vain to push him away as she writhed in agony, bitting her lip to keep from crying out, and Sinister drew her closer, walking toward the door. 

"Let me be," Elisabeth whispered, crying in the fear that she would lose this baby or deliver it prematurely when it was not ready to take its first breath, and angry still that Sinister would dare to touch her. 

"I will not. If you go into labour now, the consequences will be dire, but looking at you, it seems almost inevitable." Sinister pushed his way out the door, and almost running, made his way down the long corridor. "You do not understand, Elisabeth, what this means. This baby must be carried to full term because it will die any other way. When it is born, you will understand, but now, trust me when I say this baby will not survive if it lives any sooner that what has been recorded as the due date." 

Betsy barely heard his words, and it is not as if she wanted to. It just wasn't fair! She could take anything life decided to dish out to her, but not her baby, not her innocent child. That soul didn't deserve what was coming to it, and she didn't know what she could do to protect it. 

"Sleep, Elisabeth," Sinister murmured quietly as she drifted into unconsciousness, holding her tightly as he activated his teleportation device when there was sufficient space. "And forget what this horrid world has in store for you."


	4. Chapter 4

Faintly, as she drifted into consciousness, she could hear a piano in the background. The pianist hit every key with perfect accuracy and filled her world with sombre sounds. It was _Moonlight Sonata,_ if she was not mistaken, and it made her forget herself and where she was. In truth, she didn't want to remember. Remembrance always hurt her so much. 

It was so cold, and she could not help but shiver, though several warm blankets were laced over her body. There was a dull ache somewhere in her body, throbbing with every laboured breath she took. She wasn't sure where it came from, but she couldn't deny it was there, burning, searing, killing. 

Moaning slightly, she curled her body further over her until she could go no further, clutching at her knees, and she grabbed hold of her stomach, fighting down the vomit in her throat as she realised her baby was too still. 

" _Oh God,_ " she groaned deep in her throat, burying the guttural cry deep in her chest. Her muscles throbbed with pain as she gasped and choked on her own bile, fighting to maintain control when it was obvious she had none. 

"Elisabeth," Sinister said in her ear, "go back to sleep." 

She opened her mouth, gagging as the words brewed in her vocal cords but were never spewed forward. Even her mind wasn't working right, so she couldn't seem to grasp onto him and force the monster to let her go. 

"You're losing this baby, Elisabeth, but I'm doing what I can to save it, but you have to stop fighting me. It'll be easier if you just do what the drugs wish of you and let me do what I must." Sinister lay a hand against her back, inserting a long, thin needle into her spinal cord. "I can save your child." 

Elisabeth heard nothing more of what he might have offered and felt her eyelids hang heavy as they fell slowly down, eclipsing her in darkness as her baby writhed suddenly in her womb, crying out to a mother who could not hear it. 

* * *

She felt the warm water trickle down her check, pooling on the pillow by her head. Above her, a woman she could not remember, sat humming under her breath the same melody, which had haunted Elisabeth and her dreams since her last bout of consciousness. 

"You're awake?" The woman sounded dead when she said it. "Sinister will be happy you survived. I'll retrieve him." The woman stood and disappeared as Betsy watched her with glazed eyes that seemed unable to focus on anything. 

Attempting in vain to move her arm, Betsy's eyes drifted around the darkened room, scanning across everything with extreme care and caution. Her body had been invaded with an extreme lethargy, and the fog in her mind was worse. Deep down, she knew she was in an evil place, but she could not draw upon the energy to move from it. 

She wasn't in pain anymore, she could tell that much, but what that meant she did not know. Perhaps she had lost the child but simply could not feel the emptiness of being alone, or maybe Sinister had saved it, maybe he had done that. She did not know. 

"Vertigo said you were awake. How do you feel?" Sinister asked, standing above her and blocking her view. 

" _Alive,_ " Betsy muttered, wondering if she sounded as odd to him as she sounded to herself. Her voice seemed to be so far away, so out of her meagre grasp. What had he done to her to have left her so utterly wasted? 

Sinister walked slowly to a table against the wall and picked up a vial of dark, maroon fluid. "This, Elisabeth, is how close you came to delivering that child months before it was meant to be born. You lost about fifty times the amount of blood that I show you here, which accounts for what you are feeling." 

Betsy paled further, closing her eyes as the realisation of how close she came to losing her baby hit her like a brick. "But it's alive now? It hasn't been harmed?" 

"Only time will tell how much the fetus has been damaged. As it stands, I doubt it will be anything major, perhaps lower comprehension or an underdeveloped organ." Sinister walked across the room to the door, looking down a long hall before turning back to her. "Elisabeth, I need you to understand how careful you must be." 

"Why?" 

Sinister leaned against the wall, crossing his arms across his chest. "That is what you should have been told the moment you conceived. It was simple oversight on my part, I'm afraid. Your child is undeniably a mutant. There is no doubt it has inherited its father's genetic structure." 

"It has Warren's mutant powers?" 

"The wings, I'm not sure if they will come into play, but the skeletal structure, the hollow bones, the adapted lungs, they're all there, but there's one major drawback and that is the length it takes to develop. The lungs are not even halfway to where they should be for normal infants, and the bones are lacking rigidness. If it was born now, it wouldn't survive a night." 

"Why am I having such a difficult time with this if the slow development is normal?" 

"For the simple fact that your body is not accustomed to the needs of this child. One strong push on your stomach in the wrong spot could fracture every bone in its body. Undo stress has a similar result because of involuntary muscle contractions. Warren would have had more success carrying this child to term than you." 

Betsy laughed painfully, shaking her head. "It never ceases to amaze me what oddities manage to creep into my life. God, I thought after everything else I've gone through, I wouldn't have any problem with this." 

"And you're laughing for what reason?" 

"I'm laughing because it's so funny! Ha! I can't manage to do anything right. I can't save this baby on my own, I couldn't save Warren, and let us not forget dear Tom who was shot to death trying to protect me. I should have been the one protecting him. I wonder how many lives I've destroyed. I can hardly begin to count the list is so long. Oh, Nathaniel, tell me this isn't funny, and I doubt I'll believe you." 

"You're delusional, Elisabeth, go back to sleep," Sinister said gently, pushing her down with a stern hand. She resisted slightly before falling back with no complaint, her body limp once more. 

"Nathaniel, though I hate you more than mere words can describe, you have managed to surprise me this evening," Betsy murmured with a smile. "Who would have thought that Sinister would have a heart." 

"My only concern is for your baby." 

"I'm sure it is." Betsy chuckled quietly, moving slightly beneath the old, worn covers. "Then why do you touch me with such gentle grace? Don't be ashamed, Nathaniel, I never took you for a monster. Never you." Betsy's eyes closed slowly as she continued to murmur, "not you, _not you._ " 

Sinister looked down upon her with a sour expression, touching one finger to her check. "But that, Elisabeth, will be my undoing, for Apocalypse has no reminder of a heart in his chest or the slightest bit of life in his soul. He will prove to be the monster, while I can only try." 

* * *

"Are you hungry?" Sinister asked, entering her room, and Betsy looked up with bitter amusement etched in her violet eyes. "Are you?" 

"Slightly," she confessed with a faint smile on her lips, catching his eyes for a brief moment in time before looking away. "Are you going to spoonfeed me, Sinister?" 

Sinister's face remained stone. "No, Elisabeth, I am not, but you need proper nutrition." Betsy continued to smile as Sinister looked upon her dryly. "Mock me while you can. It's doubtful I will remain as compassionate as I am if you continue with it." 

"And this is what you call compassion? Let me go home." 

"And where would that be? England? Westchester? Soho? Tell me, Elisabeth, where exactly do you want me to take you?" Sinister looked upon her expectantly, awaiting an answer while knowing it was unlikely she could respond. "The question seems unanswerable, doesn't it?" 

"Then take me far from you," Betsy murmured, brushing her limp hair from her face with the back of a weak finger. "And I'll be happy, then, I promise you that's all I need." 

"You seem to think there are more options open to you than there are, Elisabeth, and there aren't. You cannot walk, I will not allow you to walk, for it might trigger an effect on the baby neither of us want. You can scarcely move anyway you've lost so much blood. I want you to tell me how you possibly think you'll survive without me." 

"I'll die if I stay with you!" She spoke sharply, feeling a stabbing pain her abdomen at the sudden rage, and she fell back against the pillows, trying to hide the pain. 

Sinister rushed over to her, placing a hand on her belly, feeling for signs of obvious distress, but Betsy went to work trying to pry his cold fingers from her body, fighting with a hand that was unwilling to move. 

"Stay still!" Sinister snapped angrily, using his other hand to push her back onto the bed. "What part of this horrid situation are you not comprehending? This baby will not live unless you accept my help, and you will not live unless this baby does. I worry about you, Elisabeth, I worry that you seem to place no care on this baby's life." 

Betsy stopped her struggle at the cruel words, staring at him in mild disbelief but also vague understanding, and she turned away from him, ashamed of herself and her selfish needs and fears. "I care, but I can't stay here with you, not when I'm so terrified of what you could do to me if you wished." 

"Terrified? Do I scare you that much?" 

"And more," Betsy confessed with a small voice, wanting to cry but unable to find the tears. "Why have you done this to me? Was it not enough that I am no longer myself that you had to take away more?" 

"When will you understand this is not some personal vendetta? It is unfortunate you're not as mentally fit as you once were, but I am doing this for your baby and nothing more." 

"Why should I believe you? You're evil and sadistic and cruel and unkind and every other horrid word a person could ever use to describe a devil. You are as your name says you are, and you expect me to trust you when I won't even trust my dearest friends? You're stupid if you're to believe that, Nathaniel." Betsy clenched her fists to her head, grimacing fiercely. "You're a stupid, _stupid_ man." 

"Stop it, you'll hurt yourself," Sinister said quietly, forcibly untwining her fingers from the tight ball. "Elisabeth, I understand you're not in your right mind, but you must stop fighting this. You want me to take you home? Fine, but you must realise I'll still be watching you." 

"Yes, yes," Betsy muttered, shooing him away. "I understand, I understand." 

* * *

The knock upon the door came loudly, and Bobby jumped in his seat on the couch where he'd been dozing happily. Glancing at the clock to discover the late hour, he wondered for a moment who it could be. Perhaps it was the X-Men, returned from their eight months' escapade, though he doubted it was. They usually made a more grande entrance. 

The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent. Bobby shuffled slowly to the front door, muttering various curses, and eventually came upon the entrance. He peered through the window, slightly frightened by the huge, shadowed figure standing there. The porch light had gone out, leaving the visitor in darkness. 

Something deep in the pit of his stomach told him to be on edge. Slowly, Bobby opened the door, his mutant powers already dropping the temperature by ten degrees as ice climbed up his legs, coating the inside of his track pants. 

"Robert," the deep voice said, handing him a rather large bundle of blanket, and Bobby swore he could see a pair of legs emerging from the dark mass, "take care of her. I want nothing to harm her, or the life she holds, in any way, do you understand me? If anything happens to her, you are personally responsible and you will answer to me." 

Bobby nodded mutely, gasping for breath as Sinister gently placed the body in Bobby's arms. He hadn't expected the person to weight quite as much as she did, and he was lucky he didn't drop in utter surprise or out of weakness. 

"Promise me, Robert, that you will do your best to protect them both." 

"Okay," Bobby muttered with a gargle, realising he should be reacting in a different, more offensive way, but the operative word was should and he wasn't doing that. Cyclops would be ashamed of him. 

Sinister nodded, placing his trust in a man he had always took to be an imbecile and walked away into the night, wondering if he had made a grievous mistake. It had come down to placing his personal worries aside so that the woman he had entrusted into his care had a greater chance of survival. 

Bobby shut the door with his heel, stumbling into the black living room and laying the body gently on the nearest chesterfield. Satisfied the body wasn't going to fall, Bobby reluctantly made his way to the light switch, terrified that when the room was illuminated, he would find that there lay the corpse of a friend. 

Closing his eyes, Bobby turned the switch from off to on, and he sensed through his closed eyelids the light as it filled the room. He forced his eyes to open then coerced his lax body to the individual on the couch, reaching out with shaking hands to remove the blanket from the face. Grasping the wool fabric in his fingers, he peeled it away like skin from an orange. 

"Betsy?" Bobby whispered in horror, immediately falling to her side and checking for a pulse, which beat strong and alive beneath his fingers. "Oh, you have a pulse, thank God, you have a pulse. You're alive. You're alive." He hugged her body to him, the worry and the dread lifting from him. "I was so scared. I can feel your _pulse!_ " 

Betsy moaned slightly, waking from her deep sleep at the touch of Bobby's arms around her and forced her arms to clutch at him in return, a sense of immense relief washing over her. "He took me home," she murmured, with tears of consolation streaming down her face, "oh, he took me _home._ "


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby soon became consciously aware of Betsy, lying meekly in his arms. The way her breath caught painfully in her throat, the way her stomach rose and fell with every gasp of air, it all drew his utmost attention and worry. There was something amiss here, something he couldn't quite place his finger on ... 

"Holy shit, you're pregnant!" Bobby cursed, his dark blue eyes wide open in utter surprised and shock. He then swore inwardly at himself. "I'll watch the language, sorry, but Betsy! I mean, why didn't you tell me? Was it some sort of secret I wasn't supposed to know?" 

Moaning quietly in the depths of her throat, Betsy brought a hand to her swollen belly, feeling her skin ripple as the child tossed and turned in her womb. "It was ... no secret, Bobby, not an intentional one. The time never seemed proper to tell you." 

"Did Warren know?" Bobby asked quietly, rapidly, under his breath in one release of air through his teeth. It was a delicate subject now. It would hurt to hear him mentioned. Bobby knew that and was wary of it. 

Betsy nodded slowly, murmuring softly, "he knew from the moment I conceived, and he died knowing he had left me himself, his soul, in our child. But his death does not hurt me any less knowing that. I did not mean to keep it from you." 

"Oh, Betsy, that's okay," Bobby assured her, his heart oozing comfort to lessen her sadness. "I know now, and I'm here for you. How have you been?" 

Betsy smiles sadly as if to assure him, but her attempt failed. He could tell just by looking at her what her answer would be. "I've not been well, Bobby. Some days, I can wake up and know I'm alive, but others, there is no life in me. I do not know what I feel anymore." 

"I can only imagine what it's like for you." 

"Don't," Betsy cautioned him softly, placing a cold, delicate hand on his, squeezing weakly as if that would do anything at all for either of them. "Don't imagine, Bobby. It has been painful but not unbearable." 

Bobby looked away from her, unsure if he should speak what crossed his mind, but from the look in her eyes, he was sure she knew. "You seem different, Betsy, changed somehow. Is it the shadows? Have they hurt you again?" 

"No," Betsy breathed, feeling them stir all around her as they heard their mention. For a moment, they screamed to be held, to be embraced by her, but she silenced the screams as she always did. She was stronger than they were. "No, I've been free of them for quite sometime. It was better for the baby that I forget about them." 

"God," Bobby laughed weakly, "a baby! You, pregnant, I never thought I'd see the day! And you look so beautiful," he added carefully, and she smiled, brushing a strand of thin, purple hair from her tired face. "You'll make a wonderful mother." 

"Will I?" Betsy sighed sadly, massaging her swollen flesh gently and stretching her aching back with a brief arch of the spine. "Sometimes, I'm not sure I will. Fate seems to be so utterly against me. Why would this be any different from everything else in my life?" 

"It will," Bobby assured her forcefully. "Like they say, it can't rain all the time, right? It's going to be fine. It has to be, Betsy, I'll make sure it is." Bobby stood up suddenly. "Come on, it's late and I bet you're tired." 

Betsy began to move, to walk for herself, but Bobby stopped her, placing a strong hand on her shoulder. "Not a good idea. Until I'm convinced you're well enough to be walking, I'm not going to take any chances. It must have been really serious if Sinister involved himself." 

"Bastard," Betsy muttered under her breath, ruefully letting Bobby grab hold of her though she knew her weight would make it difficult. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a brief moment, hugged him lightly, grateful she was no longer alone. 

Bobby began to walk slowly to the elevator holding Betsy tightly to him, cradling her like a child in his arms. She seemed so small despite the baby, like the fire in her had been extinguished and she was slowly deflating. She had been through so much already. Why must she endure this too? 

"Where are the others?" Betsy asked softly, afraid to disrupt the serenity of the abandoned halls. "Why haven't I seen anyone but you?" 

"I don't know where they are, Betsy," Bobby confessed, his boyish face etched with worry. "I haven't seen them since before you," his voice dropped, "and Warren left for England. Scott said it was only a routine mission, yet there's been no sight of them anywhere. It's almost as if they've totally disappeared." 

"Are they dead, and you're simply not telling me?" 

"No!" Bobby exclaimed loudly and almost lost his grip, but recovered it and at the same time hit the button for the elevator, stepping in as the doors opened. "At least, I don't know if they are. I mean, the thought, it's crossed my mind, many times, but every night I pray to God that isn't what happened to them." 

Betsy conceded with a slight nod of her head, noticing the layer of dust that covered the handles in the elevator. "This place seems so abandoned without the others." A look of brief concern passed over her face. "You've not been here alone the entire time, have you?" 

"No," Bobby smiled, "my parents have been putting up with me for the last few months. Before that, well, Remy and I learned more about each other than we ever cared to know. It's been an eventful few months in that regard anyway. Everything else has sucked." 

"Yes," Betsy agreed. Her mind was far away from her body but for a single moment in time then her dreaming was gone, and she was back in Bobby's arms, being held like an invalid. "Things have not been good for anyone." 

Bobby hugged her closer, wary of doing anything that could harm her. It was incredible the amount of caution he suddenly felt the urge to use, as if one touch to her the wrong way could shatter her weak frame. 

And then he stopped suddenly and asked, "which room?" 

The quiet question drew Betsy's eyes to the long hall as it loomed dead and silent before them. He was right to ask. She had spent the last year before her departure to England sleeping with Warren, in his room. Her former room had been stripped bare, all her favourite furniture moved to his, all her clothes put there. There was nothing left for her there. 

But there was too much in Warren's room. 

"You can stay in mine; I'll take the couch," Bobby supplied, reasonably assuming that was her dilemma. All the other rooms were accounted for and locked, saved for the Professor's, which had been destroyed during the confrontation with Onslaught. 

With tearful eyes, Betsy offered a cracked, "thank you," barely able to contain the thoughts and the memories racing through her head. She had loved Warren in this house, had grown to love him and cherish him and take him for all he was worth and more. She hadn't thought it would feel like this to return. 

They had been so happy here, and now it seemed to be as dead as he was. Why could she never reclaim the past? She had lived here before, without him, single and happy enough, but now, now she couldn't even find a bit of solace here. This was supposed to be her home. 

"I should not have returned," Betsy muttered, bringing a cold hand to her weary face, and she was thankful to obstruct her view and block the sight of the abandoned mansion. "I should have stayed in England. This was a mistake to think I could pretend it would be the same if I reappeared in America. There is nothing here." 

"I know this doesn't mean much," Bobby started slowly, "but I'm here, and I know that's probably the last thing you need to hear, but if you want to go somewhere, if you want to escape this place, I'll go with you, no question about it." 

"But there is no where else we can go." 

"I know." 

* * *

Betsy smoothed her velvet dress over her flat stomach, arching her back so her breasts thrust outwards, and she smiled, twirling lightly on her toes. She felt so marvellously alive and free. The headaches were gone; the voices were not. 

"Stop flaunting yourself," Brian instructed wearily, "and do calm down." 

"Why must I?" She countered, swinging her hips and watching as the heavy material swayed seductively in the mirror. "I'm gorgeous, Brian, and I have every right to have people stare at me. And besides, I've been cooped up in this house for weeks, unable to even think for myself, and now, that pain has simply disappeared. I can live again! I've never felt so incredibly alive in my entire life!" 

Brian stood, letting the tie fall to the ground in a heap. "And you'll just as soon go back the way you were if you aren't careful. Betsy, start thinking sensibly: any strain on you could have an irreparable effect on your mind. You are still hearing things." 

"But it isn't nearly as loud as it was," Betsy rebuked, stalking past him to her purple shoes which lay discarded in the far corner. "And I really am fine, more than fine even. Splendid! Tonight is going to be incredible!" 

"I suppose." Brian was obviously less than enthused by the thought of the impending evening. "I don't see why father has to make such a fuss about it. I despise having my birthday celebrated so grandly. Why can we never just simply stay home and function as a normal family?" 

"Because we aren't normal, brother dear, you know that!" She tapped him playfully on the shoulder, grinning mischievously. "Who else can read minds with a thought? I should hope we're rare and far apart." Betsy laughed in delight, ready to go on before Brian abruptly grabbed her and put his hand over her mouth. 

"What are you dorks giggling about?" Jamie demanded, staring suspiciously at his siblings. "Father says to hurry it up. The guests are arriving, and God knows, we wouldn't want the incredible Braddock twins late for their own eighteenth birthday celebration." 

He left on that note of bitter sarcasm, and Betsy and Brian stared after, regretful he always chose to be so rude to them. If he had been able to find it within himself to be the slightest bit nicer to them, perhaps they could actually get along as a family. 

"Must he always be so sour?" Betsy pouted, clenched hands on her slender hips. 

"He's Jamie, I doubt he has any choice." Brian sighed and grabbed his tie from the floor, knotting it quickly. "Come on, we're going to be late. Perhaps, if we're lucky, there might be a few people under forty." 

"Perhaps," Betsy said slyly, slipping into her shoes. Tonight was going to be a night she would never forget. 

* * *

"I'm dreadfully bored," Betsy muttered into Brian's ear, leaning against him as they stood in the corner, watching the elders discuss business or football. It seemed they knew very little else. "Why must they all be such dinosaurs?" 

"It comes with age, Betsy," Brian muttered under his breath, eying a suspicious blond chap who seemed to be ogling his sister. "Are you acquainted with that fellow over there standing beside the punch?" 

Betsy looked over and immediately a young blond head turned away from her, pretending to be aware of something an older man was saying, most likely his father. "I've never seen him before this night. Why?" 

"He's been looking at you for hours." 

Betsy smirked at the dry tone in which Brian revealed this tidbit of news to her. "Has he now? Well, perhaps this party might prove interesting after all. I shall go talk to him, I think, and find out his name. He is quite handsome." 

"And young," Brian whispered loudly, drawing stares from the surrounding crowd. "I would bet he's not even fifteen." 

"And what if he isn't?" Betsy retorted through clenched teeth. "Nevertheless, I'll go strike up some friendly conversation. Don't wait up, Brian," Betsy added devilishly, adding a seductive motion to her hips simply to make her brother fume. 

The young man saw her coming and darted outside an open door into the warm, summer- touched moors. Thankfully the weather was clear and the wind barely a whisper in the world. Intrigued, Betsy followed, sparing one last grin to Brian. 

Betsy stretched her arms back as the warmth hit her flesh, thrusting her chest out erotically and flattening her hips. "Mmmm," she moaned through her full lips, catching sight of the youth who was to pursue her. "I know you're there." 

"Consider me impressed." An American voice, sarcastic and deep. 

"Don't play coy with me," Betsy warned, circling him, studying him. "I saw you watching me, all night even. Do you want me?" 

"You make that sound like such an honour." His laugh was low in his chest, and unreal as if forced. "Do you even know who I am?" 

"Who are you?" 

"It doesn't matter." Such a response! Betsy could hardly believe this game that they played. It was so utterly exhilarating. 

"It matters to me." 

The youth smiled, flashing perfect teeth in a perfect face haloed by perfect hair. "Warren, Warren Worthington the Third." 

"Pah! I thought it'd be a name I recognised." Betsy saw a brief look of hurt pass over his face, and immediately she felt regretful she had said it. 

"In America, my name is well known," he said softly, "and we have the third largest private fortune in the country. I don't know why you haven't heard of us. We have a lot of power and money, more than the Braddocks anyway." 

"Cheap shot." Betsy grinned, the tension between them high and electric. "Why are you in England?" 

"My father is attempting to take over one of your father's competitors." 

"I asked why you are." 

"I was suspended from school." 

"Why?" 

"Fighting." 

"How old are you?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"No." She drew close to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the shadows, away from sight, away from curious eyes. "There's something about you, Warren, that attracts me. Do you feel it?" 

His breathing was deep and shallow, as if out of breath and struggling to regain it. She could feel it on her skin, how warm and soothing it was. It ignited her nerves on fire, like the sensitive touch of a lover's tongue. "Are you a virgin?" 

"No. Are you?" 

"No." So here they were, two like-souls, bodies passionate for the other, reaching out to be touched, caressed, loved. How she wanted him to just grab her waist and kiss her firmly, forcing his tongue between her lips, yet he held back, wary of her, untrusting. 

Her voice caught in her throat. "What is it?" 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he muttered, turning away from her. "Listen, it's been fun, but I just can't. It's not you, it's me, I just ... don't touch me!" He yelped as she put a hand on his shoulder. He knocked it off, but not before a look of confusion passed over her beautiful face. "Don't ask, please, don't ask." 

"About your wings?" She asked softly, guilty for having heard his most inner thoughts as if he had shouted them. He looked surprised for a moment, ready to deny, but Betsy cut him off, clamping her mouth on his. It was too much, these feelings, this sensuality that was between them. The urge was too strong, and her need to rebel, to be that devilish rich kid who did whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. 

And she wanted him. 

His flesh was soft to her touch, and she went to him with a passion he had never seen before. She seemed so in control, to have such a control over him, and she knew it. She knew she had that power. She knew he was hers, body and soul but mind especially. She would allow him to feel nothing but pleasure. 

There was never anything but pleasure. 

And when all was said and done, she had regret. 

So she took his memories of what she had done from him and cleansed her soul. 

Like she always would thereafter.


	6. Chapter 6

Betsy shot up in bed, clutching her stomach immediately as pain coursed through her womb like a sharp knife fresh out of the fire. Her breathing was laboured, her body sweaty, and she feared she might have screamed in her sleep. 

And to her horror, she didn't recognise where she was, she never did, not once had she in the week since Bobby had first offered his room. She never remembered; something always stopped her, always, always. 

"That never happened like that! It hadn't been him!" Betsy cried out in agony like a beast caught in a hunter's trap, squeezing her hands to her face until it hurt. "Oh God! I never did that to him; I wouldn't have done that. He was too young. I didn't know him then. It isn't me. It wasn't _him!_ " 

Betsy stopped suddenly, biting her fist, and looked down at the growing pool of blood. She retched violently, vomiting onto the crimson bed sheets, and sent one, primal thought to Bobby. It violently woke him from his fitful sleep and nearly destroyed his mind, but there was no other way to do it. At this moment, she simply had no control, and she was beginning to think maybe she never had. 

Laying back, she stared at the ceiling, waiting, waiting for Bobby to come, but he wasn't coming. Where was he? Oh God, had she . . . had she killed him? She had! She knew it; she could feel it. She had ruined his mind like she had ruined her own. 

Now she waited to die. She had nothing left, nothing in her. The baby she would have birthed lay outside her womb, hot and searing against her flesh, and it was dead, like everything else in her life, in her. 

"Giving up?" 

Betsy closed her eyes, pretending those words had not been uttered by him. 

"Like you always do?" 

No, she wasn't hearing this. 

"Haven't you any strength?" 

She was dreaming, though she remembered awakening. 

"You let that baby die." 

It was a nightmare. 

"Like you let me die." 

_Wake up!_

And she awoke into the darkness of the early morning, before the sun awoke, before the world came alive. She blinked rapidly, unable to believe she was awake, but the world was as she had left it. Placing her hand on her abdomen, as it rose and fell with every laboured breath. Her baby, it was still alive, and so was she. Alive, they were alive! 

But was she really awake? Or was this another dream within a dream with a dream and on and on until she forgot what was real and what was a lie. 

"Betsy?" Bobby asked sleepily, opening the door to his own room and looking in at her, a small ray of light hitting her left eye. She raised her hand to block it out, and Bobby walked in slowly, sitting down in the edge of the bed. "Are you okay?" 

_Calm yourself._ "Of course. Why would I not be?" 

"Call it a feeling, an intuition," Bobby responded seriously, crossing one lean leg over the other, bringing his shoulders forward to hide his undeveloped form from her unending stare, though he had the feeling she wasn't looking at him. "Your dreams have given you away, Betsy." 

_Control yourself._ "I do not dream." 

" _Liar._ " There was an undertone to the way he said it that shocked her, and she stared at him with that look that was uniquely hers until he turned away, and she knew he regretted that particular utterance. "Sorry." 

_Reveal yourself._ "I am sorry. I do not usually project when I sleep. I have not harmed you, have I?" 

Bobby shook his head, shifting uncomfortably on the bed then crossing his free leg under the other bent one, and he sat still as if meditating. How young he looked, so much like a boy still despite his years. His soul had never grown up, and Betsy was envious because hers was too old. Why could she not be pure and young? 

" _Stop it._ " 

Betsy looked at him, confused. "Pardon?" 

"Stop it." Bobby held up his hand, moving it slowly with his fingers apart and his palms flat, moving it to emphasise his words, moving it to keep her away. "Just stop it." 

"What am I doing?" 

"What _aren't_ you doing?" 

"Oh." The word was pronounced dryly with a faint hint of anger. "It is not your place to comment on that." 

Bobby inhaled sharply. 

" _Fine._ " 

He stood up and walked to the door then turned sharply, on the ball of his heel, and in flash, in a brief flick of her eye, he was there, inches from her face, breathing deeply. 

And suddenly, he wasn't Bobby anymore. 

"You let me die!" 

"What? No! _No!_ " Betsy screamed, scrambling away from him on useless legs, falling from the bed onto the floor and crying out in pain when she hit. Her baby, her baby had hit the floor first instead of her. "Go away! Leave me alone! Stop haunting me!" 

"You want to _forget_ me?" He asked, coming over her, his body on hers, forcing her down, hurting her, and she screamed again. The stink of rotten flesh was suffocating her and the fear was worse than that, far worse. "You want to _pretend_ I never existed?" 

"No, I don't," Betsy sobbed, "but I want to let you go. I want to move on, and I can't, I can't let you leave me." Betsy face distorted in sorrow, and she put her hand where his heart should have been and was not, pushing him away. "But you have to go. _Now._ " 

"Betsy?" 

She opened her eyes slowly at the question, sitting up in bed slowly, slightly surprised at the huge bulge of her stomach as it pushed out at her movements. The child within was stirring restlessly because it had not slept. 

"Betts, are you okay? I heard you cry out." 

"I am fine." The sentence seemed to lack the assurance she had hoped for, but Bobby nodded, entering the dark room, and Betsy, though she knew this time she was truly awake, was still afraid because she could not know for sure. "Really, Bobby, I am all right." 

"You sure?" He asked, absently brushing a strand of sweat-soaked hair from her eyes with the back of his fingers, gently touching her skin, and it comforted her with its sweetness. She was not afraid. 

"I'm sure." Betsy smiled sadly, catching his hand with hers, pulling it from her face and holding it tightly in her cold hands. An icy tear trickled down her pale cheeks, landing on his hand, and it burned, ever so slightly. It worried him because he recognised the feeling. It was the feeling of the shadows that time when she touched him and cauterised his skin. 

"It was a bad dream, a nightmare, and nothing more. I am awake." 

"But that doesn't mean they still can't haunt you," Bobby whispered gently, pulling her into a hug, and against his abdomen he felt a movement like butterflies dancing on his flesh as gentle as snow on a winter's eve. It was life. 

"They can't if I do not let them, and I will not, not anymore. They have plagued me enough, and I will not give them anymore time. Warren is dead, and he is not coming back, ever, forever. I must learn to live with that because I am going to be a mother and a good one. I have to be strong for my baby." 

Bobby laughed a joyous laugh. "And thank the Lord for that, Betsy. I never doubted you'd do anything less. Hey, I know, we're both not going to be getting anymore sleep, right? How about we get dressed and go see a movie? There's a theatre in town that plays the good stuff through the night, and I think ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' is on for tonight. What say, you up for it?" 

"It seems a fitting choice." Betsy smiled, gesturing to him with a hand. "But I suspect I'll need your help getting up. I fear I cannot make it on my own." 

"Nobody ever said you had to, Betsy." 

"I know that now. It took me awhile, but my eyes have been opened. I am no longer blind." 

* * *

Bobby placed his arms around her, pulling her out of the car seat, and Betsy laughed, apologising profusely every time he swore. "I am sorry. I was not aware I weighed so much, but then, Doctor Woodrow did warn me I had gained weight." 

"I'm just attributing it to weakness, and I think you should do the same," Bobby wheezed when she was standing, haloed by the streetlight above, and she was illuminated with beauty. The curves of her mature body were accentuated by the light, purple fabric that hung around her like a veil. "You look beautiful, Betsy." 

Betsy cast a painful look upon her reflection in a nearby store window. "I'm fat." 

"Fat? Pfft! You look like a pregnant woman, Betsy, fat and pregnant cannot exist together. You're either one or the other, not both, and even then, who's not to say the rest of us aren't emaciated?" Betsy smiled ruefully, and Bobby grinned, taking her arm in his. "Come on, I'd hate to have to sit in the front." 

"So would I," Betsy muttered with a soft, charming laugh. "It's too far from the loo for my tastes." She placed her hands on her back, stretching her constantly sore muscles. "I am beginning to wonder if I will ever deflate." 

"Only one ... er ... technically two more months, Betsy, keep the faith, you can do it. Hell," Bobby's eyes opened wide as he inwardly cursed at himself, "heck, it's been hardly a week since Mr. S brought you to the mansion, and you're already walking, despite my adamant pleas." 

"I feel wonderful, Bobby, there is no reason to worry. My head is clear, and with it, my body. It feels good to walk, and it's good for me." Betsy held her arms out from her body, twirling around slowly and raising her face to the cold, artificial light, but it was like the sun to her at the moment because she didn't care. There was weight gone from her soul, and the world no longer seemed as bad as it had. "It is so fabulous for me to be free!" 

Bobby couldn't help but marvel at the dramatic change. In a span of a night, she had gone from being depressed and lifeless to joyful and free. He was glad for her. He smiled because she did and his heart rejoiced for her because hers was light, yet still, in the pit of his being, a little voice nagged at him. Something was more wrong here than ever before. 

"Can you excuse me for a moment?" Betsy muttered suddenly, staring intently at a person standing across the road under an identical light, yet this person seemed to be more in the shadows than in the light. Bobby nodded, watching as she moved slowly across the abandoned street, watching, watching like he always did. 

Betsy stopped a metre from the body, waiting for him to make the first move, but he didn't, so Betsy cleared her throat, running her fingernails softly across the swell of her belly, back and forth, waiting. 

And finally she could wait no longer. "You said you would leave me alone!" 

"Keep your voice down, or it will attract attention to yourself, and I know that is not what you want," he replied, his voice monotonous and emotionless, so cold, so dead. "And for the record, I said I would not tend to you anymore, but I did mention, in passing if nothing else, that I intended to keep a close eye on you, Elisabeth." 

"I vaguely recall such a threat," Elisabeth conceded airily as if she was too highly ranked to be forced to be accepting to his presence. Whether or not that was true, she could not deny it was a cruel joke that she was forced into this role of submissiveness. "Then be on with it, Sinister. What do you want from me now?" 

"Simply to assure myself there is nothing amiss with you." 

"Then I hope you are assured. I have never been better." 

Sinister eyed her, a faint hint of what might be called a smile on his metallic lips. She noticed that his costume had changed dramatically. No longer did he don the red and blue but instead wore a simple black suit, with one red diamond over his right pectoral muscle and a second one on his left thigh, both the size of a clenched fist. The texture of the suit was metallic, like his flesh, as if it were merely an extension of his flesh. 

The thin strips of material, it too made of a metal-like substance, formed the recognisable cape as it flowed behind him, moving as if in tune with him. He was somewhat overbearing, but she was not frightened of him. She had been but not anymore. She wouldn't allow herself fear. 

"As I see." Sinister's cape suddenly merged with his body, and the costume and outer facade faded away to reveal a rather young, rather human young man. "I hope you did like my gift, Elisabeth." 

"Gift?" Betsy repeated, looking at him with sense of bemusement. "If you mean my life and that of this baby, yes, I am very grateful to you for it, though it does mean I hate you any less that I have in the past." 

"That is a part of it, but moreover I was speaking of this." He drew back the sleeve of his tailored shirt, revealing a piece of very raw, very silver skin on the inside of his wrist. "Like my flesh, your uterine walls are now lined with it, with a thicker lining near your cervix. When the time comes, and provided you do not tear this sheath before then, you will be okay. Any trauma will be absorbed by it, and any damage done other than a large tear, will heal itself." 

Betsy felt sick by the knowledge as if his presence in her body made her unclean, and tears, though she fought them vehemently, formed in her eyes then flowed down her flawless cheeks. Sinister, satisfied by her reaction, nodded and stepped back. 

"Enjoy your film." 

And he walked off, briskly and light-footed, vanishing into the slight crowd. Bobby jogged up beside Betsy, holding her to him with one arm around her shoulders and stroked her hair like a father would a child. 

And slowly, they moved to the movies, ready to lose themselves in a world of madness and fantasy, but Betsy knew it would never be enough. She could not escape herself that easily, no matter how hard she tried. It would never, ever happen, and she was numbed by the knowledge. 

She had been condemned and could not find retribution for her sins.


	7. Chapter 7

Betsy breathed in deeply then exhaled slowly, focussing on the motion, letting her thoughts rest on solely on the sound of her own lungs. The hot summer sun beat down upon her, coating her flesh in a fine screen of sweat, but she paid it no mind. The soft, cool breeze was enough to ensure she was comfortable. 

"Slug! Slug!" Bobby cried out, flinging the creature across the garden, and he shuddered deeply, a look of utter disgust on his young face. "Oh, man, I feel tainted. It touched me! I feel faint . . ." 

"It's only a gastropod, Bobby, completely harmless. It will not hurt you," Betsy murmured quietly, continuing with her yoga exercises as she sat straight with her legs crossed in way Bobby guessed could never be comfortable, yet she seemed at ease with her position. "Just like the worm and the snail before it were no threat to you." 

Bobby grinned sarcastically hearing her lightly laugh at the situation, appearing to be a small bit self-righteous as if he felt he had to defend his manhood because it was being threatened. "Says you! They're disgusting, vile creatures. I bet Ms Braddock has never even laid a finger in dirt, yet alone some of this world's most unloved creations." 

Betsy chuckled, opening her eyes and staring at him, amused. "Then you would be betting wrong, Mr Drake. I've tended to gardens numerous times, and the creatures I found below the surface never fazed me." 

"Seriously?" 

"Am I ever anything but?" She returned calmly, waving him over with a low level of urgency. "Be a gentleman and help me to my feet?" 

"Now she needs me," he mumbled, brushing the dirt from his bare legs and grabbing her below the armpits, pulling her gently to her feet. "Do you need help up the stairs?" 

She eyed the back patio steps for a moment before shaking her head, convinced she could make the journey successfully. "I will be okay, but thank you for the offer, Bobby. I'll call if I need your assistance." 

Betsy waddled off slowly, already unbuckling the straps of her overalls as she went, knowing the more time she cut down from the pre-washroom ritual, the better it would be for all involved. Bobby chuckled, shaking his head at the sight. Never in a million years could he have pictured Betsy pregnant, it was plausible certainly but unimaginable, but now here she was, carrying the child of their dead teammate. 

Bobby laid back on the grass, letting the warmth beat down upon his golden, slender frame. Sometimes it just felt so good to simply relax, especially with the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. 

He had begun to contemplate what would happen if there was an international emergency and the X-Men were needed. He hardly constituted the team, and even if he could find Remy, there was still little hope they'd be of any help. Betsy was in no condition to fight, and that left them with a team of two and very little manpower. It was a situation he hoped did not come to light. 

Inside the house, Betsy proceeded slowly to the main floor bathrooms, pushing the door open with on hand as the other began peeling the huge overalls from her body. They were very flattering to her form, but the tedious quest of undressing herself had begun to convince herself overalls were not the fashion statement to make when one was pregnant. 

Once on the seat and undressed, she relaxed, glad to be off her feet thought the trip was barely sixty metres and she had been sitting all afternoon. The baby moved slightly, kicking the spot it loved to hit right below her ribs, and she grabbed the foot, tickling the sensitive flesh before it moved away from her. She smiled gently, kissing her fingers and resting them on her large belly. 

"Where would we be without Bobby, luv?" Betsy asked her unborn child, stroking her flesh in long circles since she had noticed the baby loved it and was soothed by the motion. "Or rather, though I shall never admit it to another living person, Sinister himself? His meddling is unwelcome, but if it keeps you alive and healthy, then I would give my soul to him if he asked for it." 

"Can you hear me?" She whispered, feeling a flicker of thought from the life within her, and she touched the child's mind with her own for an instant, capturing something, something innocent and pure. It was love. 

Betsy eyes welled with tears, and she grabbed a handful of tissues the moment before she burst into tears. The child reacted to her sobs, entangling its foot in her ribs once more, and with one hand, she returned to the rhythmic caresses. 

"Shh, luv, hush now," and the baby, as if on cue, calmed its motion. The thoughts had vanished again, disappearing into the mind of a child born of love, but Betsy's soul elated with the knowledge of the brief experience. She had never thought that a baby was born with not just the capacity to love but with the knowledge of it, and what she had felt was beautiful. 

Slowly, Betsy eased herself from the seat, grasping the supports built for the Professor tightly as she hefted her weighty body into an upright position, panting softly, for it was indeed an overly strenuous activity. 

She emerged from the washroom to find Bobby inside, gulping down a huge glass of ice water and wiping the thin sheet of sweat from his toned body. He had long ago discarded with shirt and was only clad in ragged, old jean-shorts, which looked as thought they would fall apart if he breathed too deeply. 

"Hungry, Betts?" Bobby asked, wiping the excess water from his lips with his forearm. She nodded, sitting at the table and picking up the local newspaper. "What for? We have leftover chicken wings from Monday, pizza from Tuesday, Chinese from Wednesday and lasagne from yesterday." 

"Bring it all out, I'm famished," Betsy murmured, flipping through the business section, secretly pleased Worthington-Braddock stocks had risen once again. Brian was faring well in overseeing the massive company, a merger of resources between Warren's family enterprise and her own. Her brother had not wanted the responsibility or the power, yet he seemed at ease with his position, as if he had always been meant for the role. 

"I see your brother would be making Warren proud. I haven't seen my dad this irritated with the takeovers since before Warren and I formed the Champions." Bobby laughed, placing an array of cold food before her and sitting across from her, crossing his arms over his chest. "I swear, Betsy, it's almost funny to see the old fart go on about it all." 

Betsy smiled deeply, her eyes lighting up. "Ah, yes, Warren had recounted many a tale of what he had to endure whenever he agreed to dinner with your family. In fact, if I recall correctly, he paid Hank a couple times to attend with him." 

"I can think of several things Warren would pay Hank to do. Laundry, his share of the cooking, his essays, his reports, his trips to town, unless of course they served his purposes and they rarely did," Bobby explained, listing each mishap on his fingers, "his share of physical labour, which was always a no-no in Warren's book, most of his household chores, save for the bathrooms because he always seemed to time it so that he smacked into Jean innocently as she emerged from her shower. I could list many more things he paid Hank to do, but the list is too long, and I'm beginning to wonder just how much money Hank really has." 

"What was he like in those first years?" Betsy asked quietly, eating her chicken slowly and with her fingers, undeniably the improper way to go about consuming her meal. "He would not often speak of them, even when I asked. He didn't like the past, I realise now, or rather, he feared it." 

"And he had good reason to fear it," Bobby said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "It's hard to explain how he was without being there. Warren, there was always two sides to him; the cocky, young brat who loved the girls yet favoured himself so much you'd begin to wonder why he didn't just date himself. He could be a real jerk sometimes, a real idiot. He caused a lot of problems for the Professor, a lot of grief because Warren had problems with authority and those who tried to control him. He didn't like it, and his relationship with the Prof was tedious and thick with tension. They never got along, not really, despite Warren really beginning to try later on, but they were just too different." 

"Really? I knew he held no great love for the Professor, no where near the level of Scott's devotion, but I hadn't guessed the animosity ran that deep between them." 

"You'd be surprised. But still, despite all of that, Warren could be a great guy, one of the best I've ever had the pleasure to know. Sure, he ragged on me a lot, every chance he got, but then, I wasn't exactly innocent. I antagonised him as much as I could. It was one of those love/hate things, but I grew to appreciate him, and I hope he did me." 

Betsy nodded her head gently, munching on a slice of pizza. "He thought very highly of you, have no doubts about that. He considered you to be one of his closest friends, which reminds me, tonight, I have something for you I've been meaning to give since I returned to America." 

"Oh, a surprise." Bobby laughed quietly, letting the sound brew deep in his throat. "But anyway, yeah, Warren could be a real pain in the . . . uh . . . behind." He would keep his language clean for the sake of this child if it killed him. "But deep down, once you got to know him and realised he wasn't the hellion everybody thought he was, he was a wounded child, hurt and scarred beyond belief. I shouldn't even know half the things I do about him, but due to one rather unfortunate experience with a bottle of vodka and a very radical experience between us, I know too much." 

Betsy raised an eyebrow at Bobby's blush. "Oh really, Mr Drake? Dare I even ask?" 

Drake pursed his lips and shook his head woodenly. "No, really, I insist, don't." 

"Very well." Betsy smiled, stirring her iced tea with delicate fingers. "Bobby, could you talk a bit more about him? I like to hear you speak about him, when he was young and free-spirited. I loved him when he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, but I would have liked to see him smile more." 

Bobby sighed deeply, eying a rogue slice of pizza and wondering if he had the gall to risk death for food. "I'm sure he only smiled to show off his teeth back in the day. I can't really remember him ever smiling for the sheer pleasure of it. Women seemed drawn to his teeth. I'm sure he used that as an advantage." 

"He did have nice teeth," Betsy said with a gentle smile, and Bobby laughed loudly, leaning back on his chair. "I keep thinking about what we're going to say to the others when they return, if they return. I do not want to thrust the news on them, but I cannot see any other way to do it. What if they don't come back? They've been gone for months now." 

"If they don't come back," Bobby began slowly, "then is it our duty to continue the dream. Warren, through all the crap, through everything life gave him, he never doubted the validity of that hope. Neither did the others. We owe it to them." 

"You and me, and Remy if he ever decides to grace us with his presence again, but who else is left? Emma, Sean and the kids perhaps, but I have no desire to force them into this life so soon. X-Factor disbanded, and X-Force has vanished from the earth once more. Excalibur, maybe. I have not talked to my brother in some time." 

"I'll send out a general call, at any rate, and hope we get a few people." Bobby snatched away a piece of pizza and stuffed it in his mouth before Betsy could protest. She smirked and pulled the plate nearer to her, protecting the slices. "I miss him a lot, Betts. He was a bit rough around the edges, but I could always count on him for support." 

"He was a gentle soul," Betsy agreed softly, smiling upon remembrance of his actions, his subtle way of telling her he loved her with everything that he did. "He thought sometimes he was a monster, but his heart had not the capacity to be one." 

"He had a lot of problems, but I think he coped with them the best he could. I know I never had to deal with half the things he did. I guess I was lucky that way, being so naive and all to the world. Can you believe I've never smoked once in my life? I haven't touched drugs, and I've never woken up to find a strange woman in my bed. Does that make me strange?" 

Shaking her head lightly, Betsy looked intently into his dark blue eyes and smiled at the innocence held within them. How she envied Bobby, how she would give anything to be in his shoes instead of her own. "It just makes you." 

"I think, sometimes, I've missed out on the normal experiences. Not that those are normal, mind you," he corrected quickly, "but my experience with people my own age, even as a kid, there's not much of it. I don't think I'm screwed up. Do you?" 

"No," Betsy said soothingly, placing a hand on his in comfort, "not in the least bit." 

"What was it like for you growing up, Betsy?" 

Betsy pursed her lips tightly then trailed her tongue across them, moistening them slightly, and she appeared thoughtful, pensive and a bit unsure of whether or not this was a road she wanted to go down. She had never been as open about her past as people like Scott or Bobby or Hank, even Ororo or Logan. She was a mystery to them, and though that often bred distrust, it was a position she was comfortable in. 

"A chore," Betsy confessed finally, "a pain that had to been endured until adulthood became possible. I had a lot of things happen to me that I wish I could forget. The world I lived in, the wealth and the riches, it warped many people and how we went about living. I was not innocent from that, and I did many things I wish I could take back. I used my sexuality as a toy, and I paid very little mind to other people's concerns. In fact, I doubt I'd be the woman I am today if not for Brian keeping me out from most of the places Warren was lost in." 

"That's so sad," Bobby finally said, laying his head against his fist as it kept him propped up off the table. "It seems almost every single one of the X-Men have had some sort of troubled pasts. I think Hank's the only one who had a good childhood." 

"You did." 

Bobby snorted loudly, with a bitter grin juxtaposing his normal carefree expression. "Save for the fact my father was a bigot, of course." Betsy gave him a sharp look, and Bobby frowned slightly before nodding in concession. "Okay, maybe my house was pretty stable, but there were things wrong." 

"I never said there wasn't," Betsy amended quickly, and an uncomfortable silence lapsed between them, keeping them apart, separate. Bobby stood up and walked over to the sink, rinsing the dirty dishes that sat there, and his attention rested on the window before him. 

"You ever wonder what spiders think?" 

"No. Why?" Betsy asked quietly, watching Bobby as he stared intently at a Daddy-long-legs as it walking cautiously across the window pane. 

Bobby shrugged, turning toward her and placing his hands in his short pockets. "Consider this a crisis, Betts. I've just realised how many spiders I've senselessly slaughtered through the years. What if they had families? Or loved ones? And I just carelessly plucked off their legs! It just makes me think." Bobby plopped down on the chair beside her. "Did you ever think of how lucky we are to have been born human?" 

"Do you consider yourself human?" 

Bobby appeared a bit shocked by the question but nodded slowly. "I like to think of myself as a mutated human. I mean, I got all the parts, right? I think. I feel. Why if you prick me, do I not bleed?" Bobby pulled back, shaking his head slightly. "Whoa, flashbacks to English class, sorry. But do you get what I'm saying? We could have been spiders!" 

"Aren't we in a way?" Betsy asked, slowly rising to her feet, painfully careful of every stressful movement she could make and avoiding it. "How are we any different from a spider? We have people like Sinister or Apocalypse taking parts of us away until we finally die. They pluck our legs away, crippling us before life gives up, too." 

"Like Warren?" 

"Like so many others. Warren's only one among a sea of sufferers, but his pain has ended now, hasn't it? And he's gone. I know that. I've accepted that, yet still, I wake up each morn and expect to find him lying beside me, one wing draped gently over my body to protect me from the cold and the monsters. I just want to feel whole again." 

Bobby stood up and hugged her tightly, with one arms around her shoulders and laying his chin atop her bent head. "It'll come in time. You have to be patient, things like that just can't be rushed, Betsy. Some day, you're gonna wake up and you're gonna remember who he was, not just his death. Think of how blessed you've been, Betts, you got the know Warren Worthington, and you got to love him. Someday, when you open your beautiful eyes to that warm morning sun, you're going to scream out to the world that you remember him for him!" 

"But what if I don't make it to then?" 

"But you're going to, Betsy, I know you are. If it was me, nah, it would never happen, but you, you're strong and you have an incredibly powerful soul that doesn't take all the shit . . . crud life unloads and gets buried by it. Someday, that soul's gonna know it's mourned enough and you're gonna make it, Betts, you're gonna beat it." 

"Why do you believe so strongly in this?" 

"Warren told me once of all the things he admired in you it was your perseverance, your fighting spirit. He would have let the depression he was in consume him if your strength hadn't been so contagious. He never told you that, did he?" 

Betsy shook her head. "No, but I knew, I knew." 

Bobby smiled softly as he felt her arms tighten around him. Inside, he felt like his soul was drowning in sadness, but she couldn't know that. The time had come in his life where he had to be the strong one, the fighter, the leader, and he knew it. 

And for the first time in months, Betsy's soul was tranquil and at peace, and she remembered Warren's smile, how it'd attract envious glares from all the women in the room when she was with him. She remembered how proudly he'd walk with her on his arm, whispering silly comments in her ears. He'd flash that grin at everybody, drawing their attention then letting it fall on her, knowing how she loved the public notice, knowing the thrill her soul thrived on. 

But his smile was more beautiful when it was real, when his full lips were dark and blue, and even more gorgeous when it was his kiss to where that the smile lead, that tender, sensuous touch of his lips to hers. It was always so warm and enveloping; it was almost like making love with a mere touch. 

"Betsy." 

The voice shocked her out the fantasy, and she looked to Bobby, who was staring at her in utter surprise. She looked to where her hands lay on him, too near to a part of him that was as sensitive and forbidden as her heart, and she pulled her body away, knocking him to the floor with the sheer force. 

"I'm sorry," she apologised frantically, holding her arms out, in part to help him up, but more to keep him away. Her stomach cramped, a pain she would have passed off as harmless sent her into a more harried frenzy. 

"Betsy," Bobby said firmly, grabbing her tightly as he sensed the erratic movements to be a sign of her distress, and he held her arms down tightly. "Calm down, I know you didn't mean anything by it. You forgot, it happens to the best of us. No worries, okay?" 

Betsy stared deeply into his naive, young eyes, and nodded reluctantly, hoping he fell for her bluff, and he did to Betsy's utter relief. "What don't we go outside again? You can work on the garden, and I can watch. It sounds like fabulous fun!" 

"Okay," Bobby agreed with a sharp nod, striding quickly out of the kitchen into the vast backyard beyond, heading straight for the weedy mess of plants and soil then stopping suddenly when he realised Betsy wasn't following. 

Betsy stared at that spider while it worked furiously to create a web for a brief moment as Bobby stared intently, wondering what had distracted her, but Betsy seemed not to notice his inquisitive eyes. She was captivated by the spider. Did it know she was watching? 

Finally, Bobby moved closer to her, gesturing she go before him like a proper gentleman would, and looking in the place she had been glaring, he could faintly make out the body of a spider, dead with its life having been crushed out of it by a being more powerful than it.


	8. Chapter 8

"What is it?!" Betsy hollered over the sharp wail of the alarm. Bobby screamed something, but she simply shrugged, having not heard a word of it. It was late at night, and dawn was still hours away. "Intruders?!" 

Bobby stared at her and pointed to his ears before hollering, "I think we have intruders!" 

Betsy didn't understand a word of it. "I think we have intruders!" 

Suddenly, an eerie silence settled in the house, and they stared at each other. Bobby was off first, running where Betsy could not, and she wobbled after him, tying her blue robe and flattening her tangled hair. After three hours of struggling with sleep before finally achieving it, she was not amused. 

Bobby's scream echoed down the halls, and Betsy hurried her wobbling form down the corridors, a deep pit of dread turning her stomach to butterflies. She sailed around the corner to find herself face to face with a weapon. 

"Domino?" She gasped, out of breath and using the wall as her only support. Bobby was lying on the ground, back flat on the carpet and a long sword pointed under his chin. Betsy vaguely recognised the youth as part of X-Force, yet she couldn't recall for the life of her what name attached to the body. "Are you mad?" 

The white-skinned woman looked suspiciously at Betsy, her dark eyes falling on the obvious swell of her pregnant belly. Domino grinned, sliding her pistol into its holder and nodding to the red-haired boy, who pulled his sword from Bobby's throat. 

"Have you seen Nate?" She asked abruptly, the man stepping in line behind her and saying nothing. Betsy found herself paying very little attention to Domino and instead focussing on the solemn youth. Warren had looked at the world the same way for a time, lost in it, lost in himself. 

Bobby stood up and brushed himself off. "We haven't seen much of anybody lately. The entire X-Men team has disappeared, save for us and Gambit, and god knows where he is. According to Cerebro, X-Force is gone, too." 

"Nate left months ago with most of the team while I was otherwise disposed. His note was that he'd gone to help the X-Men. I had hoped your message meant they were back. I see that isn't the case," Domino said roughly, staring still at Betsy. "Who's baby?" 

Betsy looked at her with horror before remembering, calmly, that Domino had most likely been out of the X-Men loop for quite some time, so she would have to answer this question and potentially harder ones. "Warren Worthington's." 

"Is he here?" Domino looked up and down the empty halls, ill-at-ease and trying hard to hide it. There was something wrong in this house, with the people it held within its walls, with the way it stood lifelessly despite the creatures dwelling inside. 

"Of all the insensitive things ..." 

Bobby stopped when Betsy caught him by the wrist. 

"Warren died several months ago, after battling a long illness," Betsy said quietly, her fingers straying to her baby, stroking the firm flesh through her robe. Very soon, her baby would be born, she just had to hold on and wait. It would all be okay. She had faith. "We did not expect you to know that." 

Domino nodded graciously. "My condolences, then, on your loss." She looked around again as the boy behind her mirrored the movements before letting his eyes rest in place, watching Betsy with a curious fascination. "Shatty, this is Psylocke and Iceman." 

Shatterstar. Betsy recalled it now. They had met on occasion, but he had been somewhat of a dolt, and she could never tolerate that overwhelming sense of innocence he held about him for long. Now, she could almost appreciate his childish knowledge of this world. 

"I am grateful to meet you," Shatterstar said awkwardly, two long, double-bladed swords clutched in either hand. Domino motioned for him to stand down, but he would not budge. Instead, he watched with wary eyes. 

"I found Shatty back at the hideout, waiting for someone to come back, so there's only two of us" Domino said, leaning against the wall with her muscular legs and arm tightly crossed. "But from what I gather, you're desperate." 

"Only if some villain has the inkling to attack," Betsy replied, walking into the living room, gesturing for Bobby to follow. The members of X-Force were close behind, and Shatterstar finally laid down his arms. "Until this child is born, I am out of commission." 

"Where's the Cajun?" 

"Where Cajuns go when they have time to kill," Bobby replied dryly. "How the hell should we know? It's not as if he's bothered telling anyone where he went. Hell, no, he just ups and disappears!" 

Domino smirked and sat on the large ottoman, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her muscled thighs. "You and Gumbo sleeping together, Iceman? Did he run off and forget to say goodbye?" 

Bobby spluttered, searching for words before being forced to settle on a simple, "no." 

"The sun is rising," Shatterstar said abruptly, blinking at the crescent of gold as it crept over the horizon slowly with its secrets. It was a thin attempt to change the subject, to avoid having someone else be subjected to Domino's sharply acute sense of humour. 

"You must both be hungry," Betsy said, pushing to her feet with her hands on the armrest. "I'll admit to being famished myself." Betsy paused and brought her hand to her head, the sliver of sunlight piercing her eyes. She could say no more. 

"Betts?" Bobby asked, jumping up and grabbing her by the elbow, steadying her. She looked at him, and he looked back at her, deeply concerned that she was in trouble yet again. "What is it?" 

"Nothing." She smiled falsely and patted his head. With the touch, she broke through the flimsy shields his mind had erected over the years and calmed him, making him forget his worry. "Come, let us eat." 

Bobby nodded mutely and walked into the kitchen. Shatterstar followed, laying his swords on the table before passing into the other room, and Domino was left with Betsy, staring coldly at the telepath. 

"I saw that," Domino said quietly. "Do you X-Men not have rules against such things?" 

Betsy looked at her, her dark eyes as cold and empty as the shadows. "Xavier and Jean, perhaps, but I was never like them. Why should I not take away pain and worry from a dear friend? Is it not enough that he no longer sleeps at night because he is fearful for me? Or that he has lost weight and skeletonised because of his sadness? You are wrong to mock him as you do just as you are wrong to judge me for my actions." 

"I am not judging you, Psylocke," Domino replied simply, one ivory hand brushing back the ebony strands of her spiky, short hair. "I was just acknowledging that our methods seem more similar than any tedious agreement I ever had with Xavier. But know, Psylocke, if you should ever try that with me, I might not be so understanding." 

"Your threats are not needed, Beatrice. I do not consider you a friend as of yet," Betsy replied with equal severity then faltered, remembering that she had not always been like this. "Domino, Bobby is making breakfast for you right now, and you have been travelling for many hours. I need a few moments to rest. I am tired." 

"I bet you are," Domino said before turning away from the telepath, her nerves on fire as they screamed to be far from Psylocke. Domino had seen many things in her life and had faced many more, but there was something about this women that unsettled her, that made her fear. 

When she had left, Betsy sighed deeply and went to the window, laying her head against the cold glass. Already clouds had begun to form, and she knew it would rain for the rest of the day. The threat of sunlight was gone, the pain it caused her to sit in it freed from her day. She had done it out of fear days ago and regretted it bitterly. Now, she ran away from it in fear, and she was safe. 

Meanwhile, Bobby was in the kitchen, entertaining the new members of their budding team. "We really appreciate this, you know. Betsy, she may not seem like it, but she and I need all the help we can get. We aren't really leader types." 

"I know," Domino responded, pouring herself a second cup of coffee. "I have some experience, if you need me. Nate and I have been co-leading X-Force for some time now. Of course, my damn team is missing." 

Bobby pushed the eggs around in the frying pan with a plastic spatula and looked at the quiet youth, who listened without a word spoken. "How did you manage to avoid that fate? The reason I'm left is because Warren was drunk out of his mind, making a fool of himself in a bar, and I had to rescue him." 

"I was ill with the influenza," Shatterstar said slowly, looking suspiciously at Bobby. He had no skill when it came to conversation, so people rarely asked him to talk, and when they did, he sensed it was usually for comedic purposes. "Cable assured me he would not be gone long." 

"God, it's inherited!" Bobby exclaimed with exasperation, laughing ruefully as he shook his head. "Those Summers have an incredible power to underestimate time. When we were kids, Scott would always assure me our training sessions wouldn't take long then next thing you know I would be there for six hours. They have no concept of it all." 

Domino looked up from her cup. "But this is beyond acceptable, Iceman. I don't know about you, but I haven't heard a word one way or the other in months. This isn't like Nate. He doesn't just vanish." 

"No," Bobby replied, shovelling the eggs onto various plates, "neither does Scott. I just don't want to think about it anymore. I mean, I can either hope they're just somewhere far off where communication is impossible, or fear that they're all lying dead on some battlefield. I want the former, thank you." 

Domino put her mug down with disgust and stalked off without another word. Shatterstar watched her leave and wanted to follow, but he knew that she would not appreciate his gesture and would be annoyed by it. Instead, he remained in place. 

"How long have you been on Earth?" Bobby asked, sitting down across from the young man and putting a plate in front of him. "What a bizarre thing to say. I didn't realise until just now that normal people don't ask things like that." 

"You are not normal," Shatterstar replied. "You are a mutant." 

Bobby smiled and nodded his head, shovelling a fork full of eggs into his open mouth in between words. "Point taken, but you have to admit, other than that, we're pretty normal. We have all the parts, right? I already gave this speech today, but trust me, normal is all in the eye of the beholder. So how long?" 

"Several years," Shatterstar replied, eating his food carefully. 

"You're from Mojoverse, right?" 

Shatterstar nodded, wondering why Iceman was so insistent on pushing his conversational skills to their limit. He did not care for the act of chatting. He considered it to be a nuisance. It was a waste of otherwise productive time. 

"Longshot was from there. Have you ever met him?" 

Shatterstar nodded again. 

"He's a cool guy, though god knows what happened to him. He and Ali used to contact us all the time then all of a sudden it just stopped. Dazzler was pregnant last time we talked to them and that was well over nine months ago." Bobby paused and looked at Shatterstar, who was staring at him. "I'm probably boring you with this." 

"It is all right," Shatterstar replied, lowering his eyes back to his plate. 

They ate in silence for the rest of the meal simply because Bobby had sensed that he was annoying the X-Force member with his incessant talking, but Bobby was overly grateful for his appearance and wanted to hear a voice other than his own. 

"Is Shatterstar you real name?" 

"It is a stage name," the youth replied, laying his fork carefully atop his plate as he had been told to do by Teresa the last time they had gone to dinner. Very slowly, he had begun to remember the countless rules of etiquette he had been taught. 

"What's your real name?" 

Shatterstar looked at Bobby skeptically, who seemed genuinely interested in his answer, yet still he shook his head, refusing to give the name Rictor had informed him was far too effeminate for earth. He would not be used for comedic purposes again, not by a stranger. 

"Hey, my middle name is Lesley, all right?" Bobby said lightly, laughing as he thrust the plates into the sink, wincing when he thought they would shatter. To his relief, they did not. "Bad names improve character, I think." 

"You will laugh at me," Shatterstar said distastefully. 

"Honestly, I wouldn't," Bobby said seriously, his voice dropping as he looked at Shatterstar, realising that despite the fact Bobby was an X-Man and Shatterstar was on X-Force, there could not be more than a few years between them in age. His grey eyes seemed very old to Bobby, and Iceman turned away from them. "You know, if it bugs you that much, forget about it. It's really not important." 

Without understanding why, Shatterstar replied quietly despite his initial wariness. "My name is Gaveedra Seven." 

"Does anybody ever call you that?" 

"No," Shatterstar replied, "I have been in the games all my life." 

"Your friends don't call you Gaveedra?" 

"I do not have friends," Shatterstar replied awkwardly, "save for Julio and he called me Shatterstar or Shatty, and I try to call him Rictor because he does not like Julio. I have teammates, but it is not the same thing." 

"No, it's not," Bobby replied with a sigh. "Listen, I have to get out of this house before I go mad. You want to come with me into town? There's not much to do, but you seem like you need a break just as much as me. It might even be fun." 

"All right. I will dress in common clothing then," Shatterstar said, suspicion etched deeply in his voice. With Julio gone, he had expected never to find another friend, yet it seemed like this X-Man was trying something akin to friendship, but he could not understand why Iceman would want to befriend him. He tried not to think about it. "I will meet you here in fifteen minutes?" 

"Sounds good." Bobby smiled warmly, sensing the level of mistrust Shatterstar held within him and directed at Bobby. He dismissed it carefully, hoping he understood why the young man was so reluctant to think himself worthy company. 

Bobby washed the dishes slowly, too lazy to load the dishwasher, and looked up when Betsy entered the kitchen, looking tired and worn. She picked up a peach and bit into it, inhaling the delicious fragrance of the fuzzy fruit. 

"You are going out?" She asked, sitting down at the table and gazing out the window. "It is raining." 

"So I noticed, but I need to get out of here, Betsy. It's stifling me, this waiting and worrying routine. I just have to spend a few hours away from this tomb, you know?" Bobby shrugged. "I guess it's a bit hard to explain." 

"I understand," Betsy assured him. "It was nice of you to invite the boy along." 

"He's hardly a boy," Bobby replied, "though he's not much for talking." 

Betsy looked at Bobby oddly, and he stared back at her, unsure of what her eyes were trying to imply. "He's an innocent, and they are rare and far apart. He reminds me a lot of you. I find it touching you are trying to take him under his wing." 

"Is that what I'm doing?" Bobby asked, drying the plates with a blue cloth. 

"Yes," Betsy replied with a gentle smile and stood up, hugging him tightly because she loved him like a brother. She lay her head against his and felt him relax in her grip, his fingers suddenly still and resting on the dishes. "Someday, Bobby, your actions will make sense to you, and this world will have reason restored to it." 

"I hope so," Bobby replied quietly. "I hope so."


	9. Chapter 9

"Charlotte Jones! Hey, Char, over here!" Bobby called as he waved madly in the crowd, jumping up and down to overcome his lack of height. It was not him her eyes fell on first but the young man standing behind Bobby, overshadowing him by seven inches. Bobby smirked, knowing Shatterstar's bizarre taste in fashion had stopped more than one person dead in their tracks and grateful her reaction was so normal. He missed normal.

"Bobby! I haven't seen you in months!" She cried over the crowd and proceeded to weave in and out like a pro until she was directly in front of them, a plastic bag clutched tightly between her fingers. "How are you?" 

"Not too bad," Bobby replied warmly. "We don't see you in Westchester often enough, Charlotte, what brings you this far out? How are you? How's Timmy?" 

"I'm here hunting for some toy my son talked me into buying. I'm running around like a madwoman. It's been a headache to find, but he deserves it. He's doing well in school, and he only needs his crutches for long walks now. He's a walking miracle, Bobby, and because of that I can almost say that I'm happy again with my. I'm doing well." Charlotte paused for a moment, noticing Bobby's drained, aged appearance with mild distaste. "But you're lying to me, Bobby, you look terrible. Is it her?" 

Bobby turned on the dimwits. "What? Who?" 

"I don't know your definition of bad, but the morgue looks healthier than you. This is Betsy's doing, I bet. She didn't tell you what she did to me, did she? Scaring me like that, mocking that fact than I'm only human. She's bad news, Bobby. She needs help." Charlotte stopped abruptly, eyeing the red-haired man as he stared distastefully in her direction. "Why is he looking at me like that?" 

"I have no idea. Why are you looking at her like that?" 

Shatterstar frowned and looked between the old friends, hoping he was not being prepped to play the victim for some tasteless joke. "She is speaking badly of your teammate. That should not be allowed. In my world, I would challenge her and we would fight to the death." 

Bobby smiled sadly. "Betsy's going off the deep end. You'll see that soon enough. Charlotte is right to be worried, but there's not a lot we can do to help her when it's obvious she doesn't want help. Still, Charlotte, you are being hard on her. She's trying to stay sane. I can give her that much." 

"It doesn't look like she's winning, Bobby, keep that in mind, will you?" Charlotte shrugged and hoisted her purse further up her shoulder, flicking her braided hair back with a quick toss of her head. "Listen, I have to go, but let's get together sometime and do whatever it is old friends do." 

"Sounds good, Char. I'll give you a call." 

Charlotte smiled, thinking how Warren had said such things to her, lying to her, thinking she didn't realise what he was he was doing. Charlotte shrugged, missing him despite his shortcomings. She turned to leave, remembering the good old days when X-Factor existed and she felt almost useful aside the mighty mutants she had befriended. People are right to fear, she decided, someday the term human will be nothing more than a faded memory. 

When she was well out of hearing range, Bobby turned to Shatterstar. "Gav, man, you have to learn some tact. She's a good friend of mine, so she's pretty forgiving, but you can't just blurt out death threats. People don't tend to like hearing things like that, especially from strangers, you know?" 

"No, I do not know," Shatterstar replied, feeling wounded from the comments and not understanding why. "It is honorable to defend one's teammates regardless of what they have done in the past. It is the warrior's way." 

"You aren't a warrior, not here, not when you're dressed like that." And despite himself, Bobby smiled, eyeing the outfit with laughter in his blue eyes. Shatterstar frowned again, looking down at his silver shirt and tailored black pants. "We're in Westchester. People don't dress like they're going to a club unless they're actually going there." 

Shatterstar put his hand to his chin and said very quietly, "I wish to leave now." 

Bobby was immediately sorry he had said anything and nodded, finding the nearest doors to the mall and leaving through them, knowing Shatterstar would be close behind. Bobby got in the car and started it, feeling worse and worse, thinking he had probably shattered whatever self-esteem Shatterstar had left, but he did not go back to the mansion. The mansion was too much for him to bear right now. 

"I'm sorry about the clothes thing," Bobby muttered when he stopped the car, putting his head against the dash and looking up to the top of the forest, the lush canopy of deep green highlighted by slivers of golden light. 

"It is not your fault. It is mine. I am the one who cannot accustom himself to this world despite the fact I have been here for years. I do not know how to dress, I do not know how to talk, I do not know how to be human. I am a warrior. That is what I know," Shatterstar said, getting out of the car and ripping his shirt off, throwing it to the leave-covered ground. 

And when he raised his glance from the crumpled shirt, Shatterstar had to stare in wonder at the height of the green and the colours of the wildflowers cast brightly against a dark emerald background. The sun cut through the trees despite their protest, and Shatterstar found himself awed. His world was all desert and swamp, and this, this was amazing. He had spent too much time in the south with Cable. 

"Where are we?" 

"Just some place I used to come when I was young. It's right on the edge of the school's grounds," Bobby said with a shrug, walking immediately to a path that led its way twisting and turning down the shallow cliff face. "It used to be my haven. I haven't been here for years, not since I was a kid." 

"You are not old," Shatterstar said, following Bobby down the steep decline though his better sense told him just to walk back to the mansion. "You humans undervalue aging. With the Cadre Alliance, if you had years to your name that meant you had the warrior spirit. You are still young." 

"I've been fighting with the X-Men for more than eight years, Shatterstar, nearly a decade of my life. I'm tired, but I can't think of what else I would do. I certainly didn't enjoy being an accountant, but it was safe." Bobby paused, looking at the stern face as the eyes lifted to the sky, clearly awed, strangely innocent. "How old are you? You can't be very old." 

Shatterstar looked at Bobby as they stopped aside a small brook, bubbling happily as it flowed along the path it had followed for centuries, never thinking about the path that lay on the other side of the rock. 

"By your record of time, I am twenty," Shatterstar replied, jumping onto a large rock then crouching there, his knees bent at sharp angles and the muscles of his thighs bulging strongly through the thin fabric of his pants. "You could be no more than twenty-four. We are not so different in years, but I have fought a war. Can you say the same?" 

"And here I thought you didn't talk," Bobby replied with a gentle grin, kicking his sandals off and wading into the water, remembering when Warren had sat on that very rock bearing his soul. "I can't but I have lived a life. Have you, Gaveedra Seven, known what it feels like to live?" 

Shatterstar looked at Bobby sharply, angry that Bobby had the gall to spit such an insult at him, but Bobby appeared only sad, pitying as if he would change that truth if he had the power to do it. "You know I have not." 

"Then what say you to this: you teach me to be a warrior, teach me to fight, and I'll teach you what I can about living, about being human," Bobby said, tipping his head to view the reaction on the youth's face. "Would you be willing to do that?" 

Shatterstar did not have to think about it. It was a simple matter of, "Yes." 

* * * 

When she was sure Bobby and Shatterstar had left, Betsy had immediately run to her room, pulling the blinds tightly together to block the light. Days before, she had sat in the sun ignoring the sting of the light on her skin because she knew the brightness was the only way to fight the shadows. She hadn't told Bobby. She couldn't find the words to explain her growing sensitivity because it was such a terrible truth. 

She needed only a touch, only a few minutes in the dark, and she would feel better. It would not hurt so much if she only got a taste of the shadows, but it was addictive like a powerful drug, and she found that she did not want to leave. She stayed in her room, in the blackness, letting her weakness overcome her strength. 

She hadn't counted on Domino searching her out. 

Domino had been suspicious of Betsy since she had arrived, Psylocke should have remembered that, but she needed to feel the coldness on her flesh just once because then she would bear all the pain in the world without complaint. She just needed a moment's reprieve from the pain. 

Then Domino had turned on the lights. 

Betsy had screamed at her, shrill and angry, screeching with curses that Domino thought in passing were not befitting of a British aristocrat, and she had attacked Domino, her skin dark with the touch of the Dawn. The shadows had followed suit, lashing out at Domino and trying to harm her. It was the picture of insanity, Domino had thought mildly as she defended herself, completely and utterly mad. 

Domino had fought her off, escaped the slippery hold of the shadows through sheer force of will while battling Betsy, careful not to harm the telepath if only for the sake of the baby, and Betsy had fled the room in a cloud of white, her bathrobe flowing behind her like wings. That had been some time ago. 

Now. 

Dressed in a white robe, Betsy sat in a dark room, the heavy draperies protectively drawn over the monumental windows. She had been there for hours, far too long to bother counting, and she could hear Domino outside, trying to find her. 

"Psylocke, damn you, I know you're in here!" Domino screamed, stalking the halls like a bird of prey, the hunting sun trying to find and consume the hiding moon. Betsy only wanted to be alone. She did not want this. "Shatty and Iceman are gone, and now you and I are going to talk about what's going on here! That scene back there didn't help matters!" 

"Do not hurt her," Betsy whispered through cold lips, wondering how it had all deteriorated so quickly. The shadows had felt her anger, instinctively reacted to it, and that fact chilled Betsy to the very centre of her being. 

That was why they scared her, why she feared them so much, because they were a part of her, a cancer, a disease, that would grow to eventually control her. It was only a matter of time and that time was near. 

"Goddamn. You British wench! Where are you?" Domino called, throwing open the door. Betsy whimpered, drawing further into the corner and wishing her away. Domino looked at Psylocke, seeing the flash of white, and she deliberately turned on the light. "I'm not going to fall for that again. Once was enough!" 

"Why are you doing this to me?" Betsy asked, burying her face in her arms. "I can calm them, I can make sure they will not hurt you again, but you are making it so hard, Beatrice. They are so close to winning. They want me." 

Domino walked methodically around the room, pulling open the drapes and turning on every lamp she saw until Betsy was blinded by the light. "As of now, you will never know what the dark looks like again, and you are going to tell me the truth, Betsy, when I ask you to tell me." 

"The light hurts," she murmured, wanting Warren alive more than she ever had before, so much that it pained her and made her baby turn to seek comfort. She curled her body over her large belly, feeling the soft fluttering like a million kisses against her skin. 

"How close are you to losing control? How well have you lied to Iceman?" 

Betsy looked up at her drearily, her long purple hair hanging limply, defeated by the pains of existence. "I am nothing if not a liar. All telepaths are, Domino, if you're to look under our surface, if you're to crack our shell." 

"I don't want your bullshit! I want your truth!" 

Betsy pushed her hair away from her face and took a deep breath. "I am very close, but this baby will be born in a month. I can hold on until then. It is not so long, not in the grand scope of things." 

"And what happens then? What happens when your baby is born?" 

Betsy lay her head on her arms, stretching them over her belly and her knees. There was dark there, under her sleeves, where the light could not penetrate. "Then I will be theirs to do with what they wish. I don't have the strength to fight them any more." 

"And what do they want?" 

"I wish I knew, but I don't. The reasons are unclear, but it would mean extreme power. I would not be an undercloak. It is something far more than that," Betsy said simply, the red tattoo over her eye burning, and she put her palm against it, to cool it, to calm the fires. So she had finally admitted the role that she played, so what? It did not change things. It did not alter the fact she would have to inevitably leave this world. "They want me. I don't know what else to tell you." 

"It amazes me how easily you X-Men fuck up your lives! Amazes me! No one does it better, and you idiots don't realise it, don't fucking realise all the destruction you do! Even I know of the Crimson Dawn, what it does to people, and I don't even believe in that mystical garbage!" Domino neared Betsy, who was sliding up the wall into an unsteady stand. "Iceman has a good heart, but he hasn't got a damn about what you've done to yourself." 

"I did not do it," Betsy whispered, her fingers scratching down her face and across the crimson mark, "and Warren did not mean for this to happen. He could not have known, and I will kill you if you try to blame it on him!" 

Domino cringed at the shriek then screamed at herself for having been so weak to do so in the first place. "Goddamn it! Goddamn you! Goddamn me! Me! Because if I had half a brain I would leave right now and not look back! I don't want to see what's coming to you, Psylocke, I don't want to go there, but I'm here now, and I can't leave! Goddamn you. I want to leave!" 

Domino's words echoed off the walls, and Psylocke suddenly felt very cold, wrapping her arms around her body. Domino looked around, her intuitive sense about the closeness of evil alerting her to a presence other than the darkness radiating off Betsy. They were not alone. 

"My. My. My." 

Domino immediately grasped her knife, pulling it from its sheath and clutching it tightly. Already she was poised to fight, her legs bent and her back arched, her eyes watching for all signs of movement and her mind clear for focus. 

"Domino, he is not here to harm us," Betsy said carefully, laying her palm atop the silver blade and pushing it down, the metal cutting in her hand. She felt no pain. "He is here to help me." 

"And my help I see you need." There was anger to the voice, sharp but undefined. "Did I not explicitly tell you to better guard yourself? But then I underestimated the power that wants you. I did not understand how bad the desire is to own you." 

"Sinister," Domino began to say, her voice raw and harsh, but Betsy pushed her hand harder against the knife. Domino watched the blood drip onto the carpet and said nothing more, allowing herself to be controlled by Betsy's disturbing actions. 

"Why have you come?" Betsy asked quietly, her other hand still to her face, still at the scarlet brand, still remembering how inhuman she had yet to truly become. "Surely my mental unbalance would not have you here now. It has been a long time in coming." 

Sinister bowed his head, his silvery skin oddly blinding in the bright room and causing the women to squint at the glare. "It is necessary I take you into hiding. This has become more dangerous than I had hoped it would be, so you can no longer stay here. I thought I would only have to deal with one devil, but the Dawn will take you if Apocalypse cannot." 

"Apocalypse has made no move against me," Betsy said quietly, watching Domino as she stared blankly, hiding her thoughts with a skill that surprised Betsy. Domino's mind had become blank, empty, void. "And I can control the Crimson Dawn." 

Sinister smiled a cold grin. "Little do you realise, Psylocke, that Apocalypse has already struck against you. As I speak, in a secret attack, Iceman and Shatterstar have been taken down by his Horsemen, but it is you he truly wants." 

"And why would he go through that trouble? Why not take me directly?" She asked. If Bobby had been attacked, if some harm had come to him, she would have sensed it, wouldn't she? Did she not still have the heart to do that? "You're lying to me." 

"I am, Psylocke. You will be mine and that child with you." 

Betsy screamed as Sinister's silver flesh began to mutate into blue, twisting and writhing like a demonic beast, and she pulled back against the wall, trying to find the shadows but they were not there. "Damn you, witch, I could have saved us! You turned on the lights!" 

"I need only one of you," Apocalypse said with a cold smile, his blue lips twisted in a hideous grin. Before Betsy could blink, Domino was on the ground, bleeding from a large gash in her stomach. She did not scream. 

"You did not kill her," Betsy said, seeing Domino's chest rise carefully and blood spew forth with every laboured breath. Betsy laughed awkwardly with relief, her fear making her giddy. Her fingernails had dug into the soft drywall of the corner, chips of dark green paint lodged in her skin. "But you will kill me." 

Apocalypse looked at her, feet taller and looming huge over her trembling frame, and Betsy bent low to the ground for a moment, grabbing hold of Domino's blade. 

"What, little Elisabeth, do you plan to do with that? I allowed you one victory. You almost killed me so many months ago trying to protect your precious Angel, my rightful possession, my son! You won that battle, you insolent child, but you will not have this one." 

"I am eight months pregnant, Apocalypse, what damage could I do you?" Betsy asked, her knuckles white against the metal as the other arm wrapped around her belly. Through a veil of purple hair, Betsy tipped her head and narrowed her eyes. "And I do not need a victory. I only need an escape." 

The sword cutting through the air with a vicious hiss, Betsy threw it at the overhead light, slicing the chains that held the chandelier to the ceiling. It came crashing down upon Apocalypse, shattering against his body and splintering into a thousand shards of crystal. 

"You are weak," Apocalypse growled and reached for her, a large hand with larger fingers trying to grab her. 

Betsy threw herself to the ground, thankful for the hardwood floors and the slippery surface. Grabbing hold of Domino's wrist, Betsy got her foot under Apocalypse then cringed when the hand threatened to come down upon her again. With all the power she could muster, she called to the shadows, called them to save her. 

The dull blackness created by the ruin of the chandelier took hold of her body and pulled her in.


	10. Chapter 10

"You are leaving yourself open to be killed!" Shatterstar said as he leapt through the air onto a rock, his strong body covered in a fine film of sweat. Bobby panted and gasped, nodding his head and taking position again. "You do not think that you can die. You think you are immortal." 

"I so do not," Bobby protested weakly, ashamed of how out of shape he had become. Without Scott bearing down on him and forcing him to train until he hurt, his body had lost most of its stamina and muscle. "But I can't remember exercising for at least seven months, and my memory is really not that good to begin with." 

"Your body looks fine to me," Shatterstar said, his gaze resting on the slender curves of Bobby's back as the Iceman crouched low to the ground, wheezing. "It is instinct you do not have. You have followed all your life and now you cannot see harm for yourself." 

Bobby frowned, pushing his sweaty, tawny hair from his face, the dark strands sticking between his wet fingers. Shatterstar jumped down from the rock, landing next to Bobby. The X-Man looked up at him, his eyes following the length of the redhead's elegant body. 

Don't. Bobby adverted his eyes at the mental command and stood, overshadowed by the warrior and overly conscious of it. Shatterstar looked at him curiously, trying to understand why Bobby was acting so peculiarly. 

"If you're from Mojoverse, why do you have human hands?" Bobby asked suddenly, his eyes resting safely on the fighting hands, counting three times to make sure. "Longshot had three fingers and a thumb. You have four fingers." 

Shatterstar lifted his palm and looked at it, rotating his wrist to examine his hand completely. His eyes rose under the long, russet locks of hair, the piercing grey catching hold of the blue that Bobby possessed. "They have always looked like that. It is not something I think about." 

"Maybe you're more human than you thought," Bobby said with a shrug, turning to return to the car then he stopped and lifted his head to the sky. He looked to Shatterstar who was already moving and ice crept up his body. "Apocalypse's Horsemen!" 

"I am without weapons!" Shatterstar shouted, dodging the metal horse and its devillish rider. He rolled onto his back, hitting his spine against a sharp rock, and he twisted into a stand, cursing himself for thinking he would be safe without his weapons for once in his life. 

"War will destroy you!" The mutant clapped his hands over his head, and Shatterstar dropped near to the ground, outrunning the explosion that resulted. In an admittedly stupid move, Shatterstar tried to attack the Horseman, but the metal armour was too strong. War cast him away with a flick of his arm and Shatterstar went with the throw, twisting and arching his lean body to avoid serious injury. 

"They still talk in the third person! That will always freak me out!" Bobby said, his twisting column of ice sending Famine flying from her perch. The emaciated young girl crashed to the ground. "Do you need help?" 

"I need metal to conduct my powers!" Shatterstar replied, running to the metal horse that lay twitching next to its master and placing his boot to the beast's rear. He tore off the tail as Famine reached out with her thin hand and brushed his ankle. Shatterstar looked at her and backed away but not before feeling the tiring effects of her power. "She has touched me." 

"It's not too bad," Iceman replied, "if you can forget you're hungry." 

Shatterstar nodded and began to hum, his voice low in pitch, and Bobby looked at him, covering his eyes when the blinding flash of light threw War from his mount. Shatterstar swallowed loudly, looking decidedly unhealthy, but hit War with another blast until the Horseman stopped moving. 

"Feel the touch of Pestilence!" 

"No, thank you!" Bobby replied, freezing her hand before stopping in his tracks and eyeing his attacker with a puzzled look. "Didn't you die?" 

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse cannot be killed!" Pestilence screeched before Bobby froze the rest of her, depriving her of enough air to render her unconscious. She fell in a heap on the grass, and Bobby shook his head. 

"They can't count either," he said with a smile. "Death defected a long time ago." 

"But Death will be reborn," Famine whispered, her voice childlike and innocent, and Bobby turned to look at her, those hollow eyes making him shiver. "If he will not go to him, the child will take his place." 

"Death is dead!" 

"Nothing dies," Famine replied sadly, touching a flower so it wilted and fell to the grass, "it only hides," another touch and the daisy straightened, coming back to life when it had been dead, "until it is awakened." 

"People die, humans die, mutants die! We all die!" 

Famine looked at him and shook her head, glancing over her shoulder as War and Pestilence rose to their feet. She smiled shyly like a young child and shrugged. "Perhaps you will die." 

"Never!" Betsy plunged her telepathic knife into the back of the girl's neck as Shatterstar took War and Pestilence down with the third and final blast from the horse's tail. "Come now with me, into the shadows! We are not safe!" 

Bobby backed away, shaking his head, knowing what the shadows held, but Betsy grabbed him anyway. Her touch was cold and painful against the ice of his skin, and he screamed, feeling the slow death of the dark. 

Then it was gone. 

Bobby blinked, bringing his hand over his eyes at the sudden burst of blinding sunlight. Beside him, Shatterstar was on his hands and knees, vomiting violently into the sand, and Bobby looked at him with worry. 

"Are you all right?" Bobby asked with controlled alarm. 

Shatterstar nodded, retching a final time before rolling on his back and bringing his hands to his face. "I do not use my mutant power for this very reason. It makes me very sick, weakens me, so I am useless." 

Bobby nodded sympathetically as Shatterstar lay very still, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady. Standing up, Bobby looked around, his eyes widening at the palm trees and clear water that surrounded them on all sides. "Betsy! Betsy, where the hell have you put us? Where the hell are you?" 

**** 

Psylocke heard him though she was far away, and his words echoed in her head. She would come back for them, but she first had to save Domino, to find someone who would make sure she was to live. It came down to two choices, Emma or Moira, and Betsy chose the less obvious. 

"Emma," Betsy whispered, falling from the shadows into the extravagant room, and Emma Frost looked up, throwing her book atop the bed. Betsy brought her hands to her head, trying to remember how to speak. Why could she only recall Emma's name? "Emma." 

"What the hell is this?" She asked, her satin sheets falling away from her tanned, smooth thighs. She stepped out of bed, dressed in a flimsy negligee and regretting her conscious decision to remain in bed to read. "Psylocke, what's wrong?" 

Betsy looked at her, tears welling in her yellow eyes, and she pulled Domino from the shadows, taking the compact form in her arms and offering her to Emma. The telepath frowned but took the body, her hand immediately applying pressure to the grievous cut. "She is hurt." 

"I can see that! What is wrong with you?" Emma examined Betsy, seeing the frightened look on Psylocke's face and sensing her frustration. "If you cannot speak, tell me telepathically instead. Tell me!" 

"You will be hurt," Betsy said carefully, not as a threat but as a warning. 

"Then hurt me," Emma answered seriously, but Betsy recoiled, melding back into the shadows. Emma tightened her grip on Domino, watching as the dark skin faded into black and the red tattoo, the ethereal glow of the scarlet mark, was the last fragment of Betsy to fade from existence. 

**** 

When Betsy toppled from the shadows, she took great pains to protect her belly and the unborn child it housed. She fell on her back, the back of her head colliding painfully with the ground despite the sandy surface, and she lay there, staring at the sun until her eyes hurt. 

Bobby sat near to where she was, his knees bent and pulled to his chest, his arms resting on his legs and providing support for his chin. He watched Betsy carefully, soft strands of sandy hair blowing gently across his forehead. "I don't get it, do I?" 

Betsy lifted her head, pushing her heavy body to an upright position with her arms, but she did not say anything. She merely looked at him sadly, her skin that bizarre shade of grey Bobby had first seen when he pulled her from the shadows himself to save her life. He stared back, watching her change, watching the blackness fade from her face until she was back to as she had been in the beginning. 

Bobby, seeing this, thought back to what he had witnessed days ago, to the spider that he had philosophised about and how he had returned to see it crushed against the window, dead because she had decided to steal its life. What was so wrong with her that she would do such a thing? 

"I'm a spider to you, aren't I?" He asked, hot tears blurring his sight until her form became jagged and rough like stone. He pushed his palms against his face, forcing the tears from his cheeks until it became painful. "Fuck this, Betsy, fuck all of this!" 

Betsy's violet eyes fell, peering at the world through a shattered image, her view obscured by her long strands of hair, but she could not hide completely. Bobby stared at the red tattoo, glared at it and all that it symbolised. It wasn't fair, he realised, but it would never be fair. 

"I do not understand why you are upset," Shatterstar said stupidly, embarrassed now that he had been so sick in front of Bobby. Weakness was not something a warrior flaunted yet he had openly admitted to it. "She saved your life." 

"But she won't even try to save her own!" Bobby screamed suddenly, feeling as useless and as helpless as he had months before. "She's just like he was, just like Warren! Warren didn't fight; Warren ran away! Warren let himself die and now she's going to do the same fucking thing and I'm going to sit here like an asshole and let her do it! You're giving up just like he did, Betsy, and I'll be damned if you make me watch! Damn you!" 

"You are being irrational. Warriors do not ..." 

"Do not what, you stupid bastard? Don't cry? Don't emote? Don't fucking live! Why would I want to be like you? Why the hell would I want to be like you?! You and her, you're both the same, both scared to death of living! She's given up because the man she loved gave up too. And you, you're afraid that one day you will wake up and be completely human and realise that now you have compassion and understanding and weakness. God, will you wake up?!" 

Shatterstar blinked, the sting of the words harsh against his soul, and he breathed evenly, controlled, as if all that mattered was that he, the warrior born, remained calm, remained strong, remained a machine. Words could not hurt him if he could not feel pain. 

"Or maybe I should go to sleep, too," Bobby whispered with a broken laugh and stood up, brushing the sand from his pants. He walked without another word into the jungle of trees on the deserted island. It was all an escape. 

"I do not understand him," Shatterstar said bitterly, "I do not understand." 

"He is afraid," Betsy said slowly, her words feeling alien on her tongue as she spoke them. In her mind, she thought of the information she required before she would say anything more. With every utterance she paused first as if unsure if she had made the right choice. "He thinks he is lost." 

"But of what is there to fear? Death? All those who live die and those who cannot wish they could! It is not right that he says such things to me. I tell him things I do not tell anyone yet he twists my words and makes them insults. That I do not understand," Shatterstar finally admitted. 

Betsy watched his young face, catching a glimpse of something she dared not name, and looked at his eyes, the subtle grey betraying worry when he thought he had none. "He wishes you were not that way. He wishes you saw things as he does." 

"And how does he see things? What can I not see that is so obvious?" 

"You cannot see what is right in front of you, yet that is how he sees things, too. You are both blind in a world governed by light but if you only opened your eyes you would see everything." Betsy dropped her head and shook it lightly, clearing her mind of the confusion. "And I am trapped in a world of dark. You would not dare to be me. It would destroy you." 

Betsy brushed her hand over her crimson brand. "It will destroy me."


	11. Chapter 11

"Go away." 

Bobby's words came out gargled, not strong like he had tried to make them. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, so blasted weak and crying like a child. Crybaby, they had called him in elementary school. Crybaby. Crybaby. 

Faggot. 

Bobby buried his head deeper in his arms, his pants damp with the salty water of his tears, and he willed himself to stop crying, to be a man. Be a man, Bobby, men don't cry, my son doesn't cry, you won't cry, boy! 

Why do you hate me? Dad, please, I never wanted, I never meant ... Daddy, please, I don't know how to fix myself. Dad, fix me, Dad. I'll be however you tell me to be. Dad, please, make me better. 

‘I am ice. I will not feel.' 

"Please, just leave me alone." 

"If you wish." Shatterstar turned to leave but held back, his pale eyes burning into the back of Bobby's skull. "But if you should need me, I will listen. I will most likely be of no help. I apologise for that." 

Bobby laughed though it came out as a rather rueful snort, and he shook his head, knowing how his reaction would appear. "I am not laughing at you, Gav. Never at you. You can't even possibly understand where I am right now. And I can't stop crying!" 

"Julio used to cry. It is not so wrong," Shatterstar said awkwardly, pausing for a moment before sitting down and putting his chin on his folded hands thoughtfully. "I think I would cry if I knew how. It is not as easy as people think." 

"Why would you cry?" Bobby asked, a harsh bitterness to his voice that he did not intend. Shatterstar looked at him, and Bobby stared back, light eyes meeting dark, same eyes greeting with a shyness that neither understood. 

"I want to be human very much and I am not," Shatterstar replied and stood, stretching his muscled body and raising his face to the sun. With the soft wind blowing his long hair across his face, he turned to Bobby. "She would like you to return. A problem has arisen." 

**** 

As they emerged from the greenery, Bobby caught Betsy's eyes on him, watching with a slight smile on her lips. Bobby brought his hand to his face, conscious that his eyes were red and his skin was still damp with tears. Betsy shook her head, the smile vanishing and being replaced by something else. Bobby looked away from her before it became too much. 

"So Apocalypse has finally reared his ugly head?" Bobby asked, sitting on a log of rotted wood and leaning forward, his legs outstretched. Shatterstar sat next to him without a word. "What happened to Domino?" 

Betsy frowned, her brow creasing and distorting the red image of the Dawn. "Apocalypse gutted her. In a blink, there was blood everywhere, and I could do ... I did nothing. I have given her to Emma. I do not know if she is not dead." 

Bobby controlled his reaction. Losing it again would not help. "So there's just the three of us?" 

"I can find Remy. I will find Remy. We will stay here tonight, for Apocalypse will not find us." Betsy ran her hand through the sand as the other clutched at her abdomen, her fingers searching for something Bobby saw she couldn't find. "Tomorrow, I will bring Remy to us, and together we will go to Sinister. He is our only ally." 

"We could go to Boston, to Sean and Emma," Bobby said quietly, watching the hand drift away from the pregnant belly, giving up. Bobby felt worry for Betsy's baby rise to the forefront of his mind. "It's a dangerous game we're playing here with Sinister, Betsy." 

"I will not endanger those children," Betsy replied sharply, "and if that is what you fear, I will not endanger you either. Forget it, Bobby, forget me. I am so very tired of this fight, and we have lost so much already." 

Despite his attempts otherwise, he considered her words, pondered the selfless offer, and he imagined himself walking away right now as though nothing had ever happened. Eight months pregnant without anyone in the world to give her badly needed strength, the man whom she loved with all her life dead in the ground, and Bobby thought about abandoning her. That realisation made bile rise in his throat, but the traitorous thoughts did not go away. 

"I am a warrior, but I am also a freedom fighter," Shatterstar said, moving from the log and kneeling before her, his russet hair draped in the sand, "and I will fight for you. I am not afraid of my future if it should lie in death." 

Betsy turned to look at Bobby, her eyes desperate, but Bobby met her glance and shook his head slightly, so afraid, so sick with worry and fear, "Betsy, I'm not sure I can. I just don't know ..." 

The hint of betrayal was faint in her eyes but he was sure he saw it. "Then I do not want you to come with me. Bobby, promise me one thing, should anything happen to me, anything at all that prevents me from being the mother I had hoped to be, promise me you will take my baby and raise my child as your own. That is all I ask of you." 

All she asks, Bobby thought, because I could not grant her the first desire. He realised she didn't seem surprised and that perception brought a thought to his head that he didn't want to think about, that summed up everything that had ever been said or thought about him. 

Betsy Braddock hadn't expected anything noble from him. 

"You think I'm a coward," Bobby said suddenly, pointing at her with bitter accusation. As if she knew what it was like to be him! As if any of them understood! When it was far in the future and the X-Men were a distant memory, no one would remember him. Of them all, he was the one most easily forgotten. "I just can't trust Sinister, Betsy." 

"Bobby, if you think I am angry, you do not know me at all," Elisabeth responded quietly. "I am asking you to be a father to my baby if I do not make it through this, and Bobby, that might possibly be how this ends." 

Father. Bobby reeled at the word, a thousand thoughts running through his mind. He was too young, too blasted stupid to be a father. He could hardly take care of himself, but raising his eyes to Betsy, he found he could not tell her that. "If that's what you want." 

"I trust no one but you," she whispered. "Shatterstar, I appreciate and thank you for the fact that you wish this to be your fight, but it is not, and you are still young. I want you to live your life. I want you to find out what happiness is." 

Shatterstar frowned. She was not flattering the warrior in him. "I do not know how it is on this world, but I do not think pregnant women make good living weapons. I would think your size makes you slow." 

Despite his sour exterior, Bobby laughed loudly, choking because the laugh came so abruptly to his lips. Betsy shot him a wicked look, but he chuckled harder, clutching his side. "Gav, man, tact, remember what I said about tact!" 

Shatterstar looked at Bobby, oblivious to the joke, and it wasn't until he shifted his eyes to Betsy that he understand. Tabitha had given him a similar look when he had pointed out that she had gained weight one eventful morning in practice with X-Force. "I did not mean to imply that you are not a formidable warrior." 

Betsy suddenly smiled, chiding him with a mocking look.. He had said it with such innocence that it was impossible to take offense for long, and he sighed deeply, knowing he had placed his foot in his mouth once again. "But you are right. I am in no position to fight which is why I go to Sinister. For reasons at which I dare not guess, he wishes that this child comes to no harm. If nothing else, he will keep Apocalypse from me. Now, I need to rest. In the morning, all the decisions will be made final. Do try to sleep." 

"Betsy?" 

She stopped and looked at Bobby. 

"Take my coat, will you? I don't want you to get cold," Bobby said, shrugging the leather jacket from his shoulders. He would be a gentleman to his death. Betsy took it with a quiet whisper of thanks and sat down at the edge of the forest, laying back on the sand and resting. Bobby looked to Shatterstar and gestured with his head, inviting him for a walk. 

"Do you know where we are?" The warrior asked, his hands held brusquely at his sides. He had left his shirt back in Westchester by the riverbed, but the weather was warm enough that he felt little discomfort. 

"Probably somewhere near Florida, maybe even the Carribean. If Betsy knows, that's fine by me. Hell, for all I know, we're in Asia. Whatever." Bobby kicked at the sand, aware as it shifted into his shoes, and he kicked his runners off, pulling the socks from his toes and tossing them to the wind. "So, have a girlfriend?" 

Shatterstar regarded him with an odd look and shook his head. 

"Boyfriend?" 

The minute Bobby said it, he kicked himself, and he refused to look up, focussing all his attentions on his dirty feet. When Shatterstar still had not said anything, he ventured a look and raised his glance. 

"Why do you say such things to me, Bobby?" Shatterstar asked with a pitying shake of his head, a quietness to him Bobby had not seen before. "Julio hit a man once for less than that then I fought with him for questioning my ability to defend myself." 

Bobby dropped his eyes, feeling stupid, no, more than that, feeling like those stupid kids who used to make fun of him ruthlessly, who set out each day to make him cry. "Listen, I'm sorry. You know me, idiotic to a fault. I was trying to be funny." 

"It was not funny," Shatterstar decided, stopping at the shore of the salty water. He crouched near to the ocean, running his fingers through the coolness. "If you want to know the nature of my sexuality it would be best just to ask." 

"Why would I want to know?" Bobby said with a scoff, digging his toes into the cooling sand. "I mean, it's none of my business, right? Whatever floats your boat, pal. That's my motto, you know? To each his own." 

Shatterstar looked at him. "I do not understand you. You say one thing, and you mean the other, and I cannot make sense of anything you say because of it. You are playing with me. I would like it if you would stop. You know I do not get these human emotions easily. You know it and still you do it. You mock me because I am still new to this world." 

Bobby shook his head. "I'm not doing that at all. I'm just trying to make conversation." 

"If that is what you call it," Shatterstar said sourly. "I have heard from my friends how the X-Men can plague lives, how things seemed so much worse whenever one of you affects a situation. I had thought it superstition. I am beginning to see their point. You have made me feel pain when I thought it was impossible. If this is what you meant by human I would rather we not continue with the bargain. You are cruel. You think I do not have a soul. You are wrong." 

Bobby realised the extent of what he had done, and he stared at his feet, wondering, wondering, always wondering and never actually discovering. It had been a day, one lousy, meagre day, yet his heart wouldn't stop jumping into his throat, and he couldn't deny how right it seemed. One stupid day! 

And suddenly his life, the lies that were a part of it and the denial that ran so deep Bobby wasn't sure his world could exist without it, seemed like it had been nothing until now. 

Bobby took a deep breath, steadying his face the best he could. "Could you tell me the nature of your sexuality," he asked, quoting the previously spoken words, and Shatterstar looked up at him, searching. Bobby wished for a thousand deaths in those seconds before his answer. It was too long. 

Shatterstar chewed at his hair, a nervous habit he had developed while on earth, and sat down, crossing his legs as he pulled them to his body. He rest his chin on his knees, staring at the dark water. "Julio said that I should not tell people, that this was not how it was done here and I had to change myself to fit in, but on my world, it was an honour to love your fellow warrior." 

Bobby blinked slowly. "Warrior men or warrior women?" 

Shatterstar smiled then put his fingers to his lips, shocked that he had. "Warrior men." 

Bobby's ears shook with the words, but his mind had others plans. Unbelievably awkward with women, Bobby proved he was something far worse with men. Before Shatterstar could say anything more, Bobby turned and fled, his lean body turning to ice. 

*** 

Apocalypse stared across the dunes of the Egyptian desert, all-seeing eyes scanning like a bird of prey. His horseman stood behind him, the useless fools, watching, waiting, thoughtless. Only two of his had ever thought, and he had lost them both. 

"The Resurrection has not come," Apocalypse said, his harsh voice bellowing against the stone walls of his underground fortress. The Horsemen did not move, did not so much as breathe. "It has not come! My son surprises me time and time again, but his stubbornness will not save him. Retrieve him." 

"Yes, my Lord," War said carefully, bowing low to the ground as the other Horsemen followed suit. Apocalypse watched them, knowing they were nothing in the grande scheme of his vision. He had seen the mutinous glances, the petty jealousy, the hatred of his chosen heir. They knew they were lambs waiting for the slaughter. "Yes, my Lord?" 

"Kill any who try to stop you," Apocalypse said, "but leave Essex to me. It is high time he and I rectify the situation between us. He, like his brother, is foolish to think he is free from me. I am the rock against which they break, and they will be broken." 

The Horsemen mounted their beasts, waiting to be dismissed. Apocalypse nodded his fearsome head, watching them fly to retrieve his wayward sheep. "Yes, Essex will play the role he was meant to play. My beautiful War, my prodigal son, his was something Sinister." Apocalypse raised his head again, clutching his fist. "He is Sinister."


	12. Chapter 12

"You didn't sleep," Betsy said, sitting next to Bobby as the sun rose slowly in the east. She watched the sky, loving the deep colours of yellow, orange and blue, all mixed together to form a sight that took her breath away. Warren had died to a sunrise. "What troubles you, Bobby? You know I don't blame you for wanting to be safe." 

Bobby sniffed and looked at her, blinking away his tears. 

"Why do you do this to yourself?" 

Bobby wiped his eyes on his arm. "What?" 

"When did you begin to think that you did not deserve happiness?" Betsy brushed the back of her hand against his cheek, drying the soft skin and pushing the tangled hair from his face. "You are so young, Bobby. You will throw it all away." 

"Throw what away?" 

"Joy," Betsy whispered sadly. "Of what are you so afraid? That he will not love you back? Because he will, Bobby, it is his way. He will love you with all that he is and more if you only ask for it. You don't need to be afraid." 

"But I'm not gay," Bobby muttered, putting his hands to his face. "I'm not." 

Betsy clasped her hands, resting her head on her fists as she watched the horizon, bittersweet memories clouding her thoughts. In the end, this was all he had wanted, to sit and watch the sun come up wrapped in her arms. She had not seen a sunrise since his death. 

"Bobby, you think that you have some reason why you should be punished. I will not blame it on your father, though I think in part that might be a reason, but I will blame it on the fact that you are a mutant. You and I, Bobby, we're already a minority, but we have a difference. I accepted the fact I was a mutant with open arms, it set me apart and I revelled in that fact, but you, Bobby, you never wanted to be anything other than normal, did you?" 

Bobby tilted his head, looking her deep in the eyes, but he could not say anything, not yet. He nodded solemnly, ashamed of who and what he was. Betsy touched his face again, her thumb stroking under one red eye, her fingers nestled in his hair. 

"Bobby, but this is normal for you. This is the way it was intended for you to be. Why can't you see what a special thing that is?" Betsy took him in her arms, the maternal instincts in her sharpened to a point. He leaned against her, blinking back hot tears, and she cradled his head against her body, watching the sky. "Is it the speed that you fear?" 

"It's too fast," he choked, his fingers curling on her flesh. "I don't know ... I don't ... I..." 

"Then let me tell you this: Bobby, it took me almost three hours to fall in love with Warren." Bobby looked at her, skepticism etched on his young face, and she smiled gently. "I started spending time with him because I thought, of all the men in the Mansion, that he was the least likely candidate for my love. I had always thought he was a jerk, pompous, snotty, superficial and terribly self-righteous, but he was beautiful, and I was lonely. I hadn't wanted a relationship. I hadn't wanted love. I had only wanted to sleep with him." 

"But you..." 

Betsy grinned and shook her head. "Don't you dare say that, Bobby. Our first night together was the same night as our first date, and that night, when I finally looked at Warren away from the others, away from people who expected him to fill the role of playboy, I saw the man that I would love. Perhaps our relationship moved fast, but it was right for us, and sometimes it is so right that the speed of the union does not matter, only that the people involved are finally together." 

Bobby bowed his head, so ashamed, so unclean. "I loved him, you know." 

"I know that," Betsy murmured, brushing his hair back with gentle, motherly fingers. "That someone so pure, someone so full of innocence and hope could love him like you did made him happy, Bobby." 

"Did Warren tell you?" Bobby asked, blinking back the tears as they rose again. "About me ...?" 

Betsy kissed the top of his head, the solidity of his body and the steady rise of his chest calming her rattled nerves. How great it was to be needed again, it made her forget how useless she had become. "Unintentionally. He held the secret for you like he promised." 

Bobby sniffed and straightened his body, bringing his knees to his chest and watching the orange sky welcome morning. "He was my first kiss, Betsy, I don't know if he told you that. I haven't told anybody ever, not even Hank. I was so embarrassed, I thought I would die, but Warren was never ashamed. Warren wasn't like me." 

"Warren was afraid of men, Bobby, he had always been mistreated by them. You were the only man he ever let touch him without fear, whom he didn't fear at all. Why can't you see that you are special?" Betsy rubbed his back tenderly as she used to do to Brian, to calm her brother whenever the weight of the world threatened to tear him down. "Tell me, Bobby, tell me your secret so it is a secret no more." 

Bobby lifted his head and stared at her. "But you already know." 

"But I did not hear it from you. Tell me, please, I want to know the real you." 

Bobby frowned and licked his lips, aware of how parched and dry they had become. He could feel Betsy's eyes on him, the deep purple cutting to his very soul. How he had come to be in this position he was not sure, but perhaps it was the proper time for him to stop hiding. Death could come any moment. What if he died before ever having really lived at all? 

"I'm gay, Betsy." 

There. He said it. But despite trying to convince himself that it was nothing, Bobby knew it was everything, and he could feel the weight lifted from his shoulders. "And I will come with you to Sinister. I promised to protect you, Betsy, and if nothing else, the last vestige of my strength is yours." 

"Thank you," she whispered, "now ask Shatterstar if he is still willing to come. If nothing else, I want him there in case what I have to do becomes too much for you, and I will try to find Remy, to somehow add power to our number." 

**** 

Remy LeBeau sat on the train, reading the newspaper with eyes cloaked by sunglasses. The woman across from him watched him attentive dedication, but he paid very little mind to her. Rogue would come back to him someday, and he would not prove everyone right by abandoning the hopeless ideals of their love, even if loving her did not make him happy. 

He stood up, heading straight for the washroom to dispense the morning's coffee where it belonged. He slipped into the far too small compartment, locking the door behind him as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. 

"I am handsome beyond belief," he decided, grinning. He leaned over the toilet, undoing his pants, humming a little tune, grinning as if he had some reason to grin. He looked down, his eyes bulging in their sockets as he gazed into the shadows. "Merde!" 

* _Take my hand._ * 

"Psylocke?" He said, staring at the fingers as the hand waited patiently, the nails long and sharp. "Can you at least let me put the package away, woman? And what do you think you're doing, scaring a man during a piss like that?" 

Remy grinned at the telepathic cursing and zipped up his pants, washing his hands for her sake. Accepting his luggage as a loss, he grabbed firm hold of the fingers and held his breath as the world writhed and turned inside out. 

When the darkness gave way to blinding sunlight, he steadied himself and concentrated on keeping his breakfast where it was meant to be kept. He blinked and wiped his mouth, raising his eyebrows at the group gathered before him. 

He opened his mouth to speak, to utter some witty comment that would warrant its fair share of dirty looks and shaking heads, but Betsy raised her hand, her skin dark and grey but growing increasingly lighter with every second. His eyes connected with hers, and he saw something graver than worry in her eyes. He saw fear. She would have only come after him for a reason. She would only have found him if it was a matter of life or death. He would not open his mouth until she spoke first. 

**** 

The words Betsy needed to say came hard to her tongue, and she searched hard for them, to find the perfect sentence that would convince Remy to go into the darkest pits of hell for her and do it all willingly. 

"I need you to take me to Sinister," she said simply. She sensed Bobby's surprise, his confusion at the request, and though she understood why Remy had kept the secret about his involvement with the Marauders, this was more important. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Remy replied, reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and removing a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. He puffed on it intently. "I don't." 

"Warren and I had no secrets, Remy," Betsy said carefully. 

The Cajun's face fell and he inhaled sharply then exhaled the stream of smoke from his nostrils. The devillish red-on-black eyes rose, surveying the landscape, avoiding the looks. "I don't want to be involved." 

"You involved yourself the moment you agreed to work for him," Betsy said sharply, trying to sound strong and sure of herself despite her growing fears. Her baby was still, the thoughts heavily clouded, and there was a fear in her so deep that she was sick with it. "Remy, you have to take me to him." 

Remy frowned. "You don't want to involve yourself with him, chere." 

"If you can think of some other way to save my child, you tell me! You tell me what other choice I have! Remy, where have you been for the last few months? Where were you when I almost lost this child? Or when Sinister came and saved it? Where were you when Apocalypse tried to take it from me? You have no right to think you have any say here! You will take me to him or I will make you!" 

Remy reeled back, dropping his cigarette from his dry lips and cursing when it hit his hand, burning his skin. He rubbed his flesh with his thumb, looking at it. "He will destroy you, Elisabeth, you make no mistake about that." 

"Then let my destruction come. I am unimportant." 

"Your death will not be on my head," Remy said sharply. "If he should cross you, if he should do to you what he did to me, you will not blame that on me! You think you know, Elisabeth, but you don't have any idea what he'll do to you!" 

"My life is already not mine to own. Do you think I care who will fight for possession of my soul?" Betsy asked quietly, putting her hand to her forehead as a headache descended upon her rapidly. "Remy, please, there is no one else who can help me." 

Aware she was grovelling, Betsy could not find the strength to raise her eyes and meet his glance. She had been reduced to the role of beggar, and even then he refused to help her, humiliated her, forced her into this pathetic state. Had Warren begged like this when Apocalypse offered him his only desire? 

Why are you not here? She thought as if he could somehow hear her, her fingers brushing her tangled hair from her face. Damn you, Warren! You are in my every thought, my dream, my every hope. I am nothing now, nothing at all without you, and you, you are not coming back to me, are you? 

**** 

Remy could only stare at Betsy, painfully aware of her hopelessness, her sorrow, her fear. All of it he felt as a thousand shards of glass into his soul, wanting to ignore it, able to ignore it. He could be the strong one if the others refused that role. 

"Remy, will you please help her?" Bobby asked softly, his voice uneven as if he feared he would condemn her more with the words. "Please. You'll do her more harm than good if you don't. She is right. There is no other choice." 

Remy frowned. "I don't want that on my conscience." 

"Why will nobody help me?!" Betsy shrieked suddenly, hot tears blurring her sight. "I've done so much for you! All of you, I would have given my life for you, and when it comes to me, when it comes to me you are cowards and want me to suffer." 

"We don't want you to suffer, Betsy," Bobby said, guilty that she spoke to both him and Remy, aware that the only one willing to help her without question was an essential stranger who sought only to do what was right. "There just has to be another way." 

"To whom do you want me to give my soul? This game between them, between the Dawn and Sinister and Apocalypse, is already out of control. Do you wish that I should sell whatever is left of me to the next highest bidder? Perhaps I could go to Roma, or perhaps Merlin her father, perhaps I should bring them into the game? I can bring Mojo and Spiral into it, if you wish, or perhaps I should bring the children, Jubilee, Everett, Jonothon. Should I forfeit their lives as well as mine? I can ask Brian for help and pray that his child does not die in the attempt. You tell me the other way and I will do it." 

Remy and Bobby exchanged looks, having fought alongside each other long enough to understand that they were both worried for her sanity that seemed to be slowly ebbing away. Shatterstar, separate from the fight, stepped forward, dressed in his full uniform and his blades clutched in either hand. 

"Sinister is the lesser of the three evils. It is only logical that he is the one who helps you. On my world, once you lose control of a situation, you are considered already dead. You are not yet out of control. Invite more players and you will lose that advantage," he said carefully. "And if she choses to forcefully remove the information from your head, I will help her." 

Gambit raised his eyebrows at the tone the youth took with him. "And who are you, boy, to think you know anything about Sinister? I've heard of you, Shatterstar, and nothing I've heard makes me think your advice is something a body should take." 

A flash of silver and Gambit was on the ground, the double-bladed sword pressed under his chin. Shatterstar stood over him, his figure illuminated by the bright sun at his back, and his eyes narrowed, the dark tattoo over his eye the central focus of Gambit's sight. The Cajun attempted to speak, but Shatterstar pushed the blade deeper, drawing a bead of blood before removing the weapon. "It is custom that you shed blood for your words. When a warrior insults another warrior out of anger it is considered a crime." 

"Yeah? Who's custom?" Remy muttered, sitting up and placing his palm against his throat. Known for his agility and quick reflexes, it bothered Remy that the boy had him down before he knew what hit him. 

"The Cadre Alliance," Shatterstar replied, sheathing both his swords and turning his back to Gambit, a symbol that the conflict had been solved. "And be aware that if you were not an X-Man, I would have shed more lifeblood than a single drop." 

"Asshole," Remy mumbled, his voice a deep growl. If she wanted this, she would take it from him, willingly or not, so it would be better he accept the former and spare himself some immense pain. "Elisabeth, if this is what you want ..." 

"It is." 

"And I have you word that you will not blame me for what happens?" 

"You do." 

Remy grunted, lighting a second cigarette and taking a deep breath. He didn't believe her, not entirely. He knew the accusing stares would never come from her or Bobby or even Shatterstar. They would come from everyone else when they found out he had delivered a pregnant woman to a monster. 

"Then I will find him."


	13. Chapter 13

"Apocalypse?" Emma asked with mild alarm, keeping her voice and calm despite the terror she felt. She had never met the devil, had hoped she never would, and now her fears were for the children. "Are you sure?" 

"I saw him rip out my guts," Domino replied, lying on the bed but every moment or so struggling to rise to her feet. Emma pushed her down with every attempt, her hand placed firmly on the pale shoulder. "That mindwitch ..." 

"Watch your tongue." 

"Whatever. That _telepath_ has been hiding things for you, from all of us, and we all look like fools for letting it get this far. The reality, Emma, is that you have a psychopathic and very pregnant telepath running around," Domino muttered, trying once again to sit up but collapsing in mute pain, her eyes squinting shut. "Fuck and damn. This hurts." 

Emma put a hand on her shoulder. "If you would stop moving, that would not be a problem. However, you are right to tell me this. I had no idea, I didn't even suspect Elisabeth was on the brink until she showed up in my bedroom with you." 

Domino threw her arms against the bed in disgust at her own weakness. "We have to find her and stop her from making another stupid mistake. She's allied herself with Sinister, opposed Apocalypse and attempted to outwit the Crimson Dawn." 

"The Crimson what?" 

"You should get out of Boston, Frost, and open your eyes. We have two complete teams missing, X-Factor is long dead, Excalibur finally caved in on itself, and Generation X is the only team Xavier has left, wherever he might be." Domino placed her white fingers against her forehead, amazed at the sheer amount of pain near-disembowelling caused. "To save Psylocke's life when Sabretooth went after her, Wolverine and that bird-brained..." 

"Domino, have respect for the dead if you will. Warren Worthington might not have been what everyone wanted him to be, but he was a good man," and an excellent lover she was tempted to add but didn't, "and I won't sit here and let you mock him when he can no longer defend himself against your somewhat brutal sense of humour." 

"Fuck you. To make a long and downright ridiculous story short, Psylocke evidently owes her life to this so-called Crimson Dawn, which is a load of crap if you ask me. They want her. Apocalypse wants her. Sinister has her. Do you see the problem here?" 

"You will watch how you speak to me. Injured or otherwise, I won't take that, least of all from you." Emma sat back in her chair, crossing her long legs and running her hand through her silky hair. "I see the problem. What do you propose I do about it?" 

"Not you. Me. Let me out of this damned infirmary." 

"Domino, you not seem to realise that if I want you to stay here in bed that you will stay here." She emphasised the last words, already feeling her strong personality being eclipsed by an even mightier one. It was not a pleasant acknowledgement. "Give yourself another day, and we'll discuss this again." 

"Like hell we will!" 

Emma sighed deeply. "Will you be rational for just one minute, Domino? Give me that much please. If we do, and yes I mean we, move on this, it will be when you can at least sit up without plunging into agony." 

Domino grunted, crossing her muscular arms over her small chest, tapping one finger on her biceps as she breathed deeply through her nose, teeth clenched. She didn't like this situation Elisabeth had put her into, she didn't like this utter feeling of uselessness. One day as an X-Man, and Apocalypse wipes her out. 

Emma pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to fight the headache that threatened her. "You know we don't have the power to move. It would be suicide." 

"That can be overcome." 

"Can it?" 

"Yeah." Domino thought for a moment. "If you bring that kid with the face, we'd have a chance at least. Nate says he's on par with him, which must mean he's pretty hot stuff. Me, you, the kid, it could work then." 

"I don't want the children involved." 

"He's old enough to make up his own mind," Domino replied coldly, trying to put a name to the face she recalled so vividly in her mind. She remembered the colours and how they had put a sense of wonder back into her life. Cable had felt something similar seeing the boy, and they had made love for hours afterward, the world seeming less horrible knowing they could still see the beauty. God, she missed him. "He's omega class, Emma." 

"I know that," she snapped, pushing her blonde hair out of her face with her palms. "Jono is too young to be involved in this, regardless of the amount of power he has. This is the last thing he needs to add to everything else." 

"Maybe this will give him purpose. God knows I had none in my life until I started fighting back. Ask him, Emma, and let him decide. I don't like what's going on here because it goes beyond Psylocke. It'll start with her, but one of her opponents will continue with it until it affects us all. I know that's the future we face." 

Emma nodded and stood up, flattening her jacket along her hips. "I'll ask him because I know you're right. Whatever is going on here, whatever will happen, will have a far reaching hand. And Domino, please rest. He almost killed you." 

"I'm not dead yet." 

Emma smiled and nodded, shutting the door behind her as she left, and Domino lay back to stare at the ceiling as if she could somehow will the strength back into her body. With time, sleep came, and she slept with frantic dreams. 

**** 

"That is in no way fun," Remy said in disgust as he fell from the shadows, lying on the green grass until he felt it safe to move again. Bobby nodded weakly, feeling cold when such an idea had long ago become absurd. Remy watched as Betsy brought Shatterstar through the black hole, giving him to Bobby to steady. Remy raised an eyebrow and grinned to himself. 

Could they ...? He dismissed the concept. That particular idea was too weird. 

Betsy stepped into the light, one hand on her heavy belly and the other one to her head. She moaned a weak mew, stumbling until Remy caught her, setting her upright. She shook him off, but he would not let go. "I am fine." 

"No, you're not," Remy replied quietly, his arm entangled with hers to keep her straight. "There ain't no shame in admitting you're weak, Elisabeth, or that you need help, but you gotta be careful who you get that help from. That was my mistake." 

"Gambit the Marauder, eh?" Bobby said dryly. 

"Gambit the Stupid is more like it, Robert," Remy replied, trying to be stronger than the demons of his past, but it was hard. He hadn't forgiven himself for that moment of weakness. It had done too much damage. "Xavier knew, you know. I told him." 

"Wonderful," Bobby said, touching his hand to Shatterstar's back before remembering where he was, and more importantly, who he was. Shatterstar smiled at him before he could move, seemingly forgiving him for the asinine display yesterday. Why couldn't he just come out and say it? It was obvious he wouldn't be rejected, even Betsy had seen as much. It frustrated him and made him angry at himself. 

Remy grinned again, the second clue, and the impossible seemed to become possible, but still he couldn't quite believe it. It was still too weird to think about, and he really didn't want to think about anything at that exact moment. 

Betsy closed her eyes, aware only of the overwhelming sense of pain that seemed to be within every cell of her body. Once again, she searched for signs of life and could sense nothing, not a murmur, not a cry, just nothing. The fear made her sick, and the stress was getting to her. She could feel herself beginning to break. She could not hold out much longer. It would tear her apart. "Remy?" 

"Yes, chere?" 

"Don't let go of me?" 

"Never. Now come on. It's a long walk down." 

Bobby looked around, putting his hand over his eyes to look up at the bright sun and the skyline of the buildings it highlighted beautifully. Good old New York, he thought dryly. He had never asked where they had been, but he realised now it didn't matter. From the beginning, he had gone forward without question and it had worked for him. He wasn't going to change that. 

Gambit led them to a sewer entrance, one of many Bobby could remember using to get underground and to the Morlocks. It was wet with slime, and the stench was overwhelmingly terrible, acidic and putrid. Bobby plugged his nose with his fingers, his eyes burning with the bitter ripeness of it all. 

"I am going to be sick," Betsy said weakly, and Remy held her as she fell to her knees, vomiting onto the ground. He had been sick, he remembered vividly, when he had seen Warren strung up like meat to die. It had been the vile mix of blood and human waste, and though Remy could do nothing to save him, he washed his body with a wet, dirty rag so that upon death it would not be evident how utterly they had destroyed him. "Thank you for that." 

"Huh?" Not the most eloquent of responses, but he honestly didn't understand. 

Betsy wiped the sickness from her lips, bowing her head and taking a deep breath. "I will apologise in advance to anyone I unwillingly scan, but my telepathy is not functioning right. Nothing about me is quite right anymore. I'm sorry, Remy." 

"Doesn't matter," he replied. 

"It does," she insisted, retching violently again as the smell proved to be too much for her already weak body. She put her hand on his arm, needing to say this for reasons she could not understand. This woman she was becoming, it was like she was going back to the way she had once been, and she suddenly had every intention of convincing others that she had not always been the sultry, sexy Psylocke. "It does matter. It mattered to him. That's why he didn't blame you. It meant everything to him, so it means the same to me." 

"Then you're welcome, I guess," Remy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. He could feel the eyes on him. The tender eyes of Betsy, the harsh eyes of Bobby, the unknowing eyes of Shatterstar, they all looked at him, trying to catch a glimpse into his soul. "This doesn't mean what I did was right. It can't change it." 

"I know," Betsy replied wearily, "but it means you have the strength to redeem yourself." 

"Says you," Remy muttered but said nothing more about it. He helped Betsy to her feet, holding onto her arm as they began to walk again. He watched Bobby, noting how his glance rested on Shatterstar on occasion before he turned abruptly away, hoping that no one had noticed. Remy regarded him with immense pity. 

As the light slowly disappeared and the world crept into the shadows, Betsy shook, the muted screams scratching her ears and crying for her to come to them. They were where she belonged now. How much longer could she ignore that? But she was afraid to leave this world, the one with sun and light and warmth. In there, in the shadows, it was cold and dark, like death itself, yet still, her need for them was like a drug. She would never truly be at peace until she accepted her fate lay in the blackness beyond, but she would be so lonely there. 

"Don't lose it now, chere," Remy said quietly, clutching her tighter, and only then did she become aware of her tears. She nodded, agreeing, but it was impossible to stop the tears. She had been doing this too long. It was so much harder than she thought it would be. It was so much harder alone. 

**** 

"I bought this for you," Warren said, handing her a small box wrapped in silver paper. He had been so shy about it, so earnestly happy to have bought the gift though he struggled hard to hide it. They had made it to two months. Betsy had never been so happy in her life, and she took the book with the tips of her fingers, looking coyly at him. "It reminded me of you." 

"All right," she said slowly, pulling at the silver ribbon then carefully peeling away the tape from the paper. He watched her, biting his lip then chewing on his nails. He had not overwhelmed her with gifts or flaunted his money, trying to buy her affection. 

He watched as she opened the box, twining her fingers in the golden string and pulling the glass ornament from the tissue paper. The paper fell from her hand, and she laid the gift in her palm, running her finger over it. It was smooth and cool to the touch, and she held it up to the window, her fingers holding the rope as the sun cast through the glass. With a breath, she gasped as tiny pink butterflies reflected onto her hands, dimly painted on the walls and on Warren's face as he watched her, grim as always. 

"It's beautiful," she whispered breathlessly, holding out her hand to him. He approached her warily, still convinced that she was a dream, that she was too good for him, and she smiled gently to ease his fears. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome," he replied, his voice uneven as she took his fingers with hers, weaving them together then pulling to have him sit next to her. She looked at him, and he put his hand to her face, brushing away a loose strand of hair. Their eyes met, purple against blue, and there sparks of something greater than them, a flash of something amazing. 

She didn't know then that it was really love, and the next day Sabretooth ripped her apart, tore her guts from her body in hope that she would die. By then, they had already been condemned by the Crimson Dawn, and the innocent, the naive joy they held about each other, was stripped from them. They been so close to true happiness, to the ideal of pure love. 

**** 

It was strange she remembered that day now, descending down the steps into hell. It had been eclipsed by Sabretooth, irrevocably destroyed and ruined in her memories, but she thought of that gift now and how it still hung on her window, letting the butterflies brighten her world in the slightest way with a flutter of beauty. 

She was still reflecting on the preciousness of that day when Remy stopped in his tracks, muttering a foul French curse. Still holding onto his arm, she looked up, an uneasy feeling settling upon her. 

Sinister sat against the wall, clutching his metallic insides as they seeped from his body, and he looked at them, not powerful, not in control, but hurt, wounded, like a bird, like Warren had been at his minion's hands. 

"It seems I am not as immortal as I originally thought."


	14. Chapter 14

Colin McKay, the mutant Kylun, bowed his head in memorial of his long dead wife, Sat'neen, praying to his gods that they continue to protect and treasure her soul. He had escaped from the Braddock Manor, leaving Micromax and Nightcrawler to battle wits with Meggan and Brian over the multitudinous number of reasons why they should rejoin Excalibur. Meggan was heavy with child, a happy discovery that little miracles could still happen. A conception between a human and a faery was unlikely, but she had mastered control over her body enough that it became possible. 

He laid flowers on his wife's grave, kissing the dirt and saying one final goodbye. Kylun put flowers on the graves of the Braddocks, honouring them for bringing into the world two of the most courageous people he had ever had the grace to meet. 

"I didn't know you, my friend, but if you made Elisabeth happy then I respect you as well." He put the flowers against the tombstone, regarding the name. He had never met Warren Worthington, heard of him certainly but the high-flying Angel had been somewhat of an enigma by the time he emerged from Ee'rath. "And I honour you, my friend." 

He opened his mouth to recite a prayer for all the fallen, but he was hit with a blast from behind, falling limply forward as the Horsemen of Apocalypse set down on British soil. Pestilence dragged Kylun from atop the grave as War set his horse to digging up the dirt so they could remove the body. Famine sat next to the flowers, touching them so they withered and die. 

"Everything dies," she whispered, making a beautiful bouquet of dry, brown flowers, and she sniffed them, the gleam of madness in her eyes. 

"Impossible!" War opened the coffin, thrusting the heavy oak lid aside and picking up the lone sheet of paper that lay where a blue body should have been. He read the words carefully before crushing the paper between his fingers in frustration. 

~You are stupid to think I did not anticipate this. You will never find him. I have made sure of that. If you should try to find him, rest assured you will die for your attempts. His life is mine and mine alone. It will never be yours.~ 

"She knows where he is," Famine whispered, "his woman. We must find him." 

With that, they mounted their beasts and rode to find Psylocke. 

**** 

"You're bleeding," Remy said stupidly, watching the dark maroon liquid pool around Sinister's body, the smell of ammonia and metal ripe in the air. It moved with the viscosity of mercury, slowly spreading into a larger and larger area. "Apocalypse?" 

"Do you think any mortal could do this to me?" Sinister grunted, remembering for the first time in a hundred years what pain was, how it burned and made him sick, weak, human. "Yes, yes, my lord and master has been spurred into action. Fine work, Elisabeth." 

"You blame this on me?" She could not keep the incredulity from her voice. "If nothing else, at least I had the courage to openly stand in opposition of him instead of cowering underground for the last century!" 

"Do not fault me for being intelligent," Sinister replied, willing his skin to move over the hole in his stomach, to hold his insides against his spine where they belonged. It would not move. The pain was ruining his concentration. "He will hunt you like he hunts me." 

Betsy smiled. "Is that fear I hear in your voice?" 

Sinister raised his eyes, his fingers curling into his gut. "If that is what you choose to call it. You X-Men have very little sense when it comes to Apocalypse. In a way, it is a pity Angel died. He was your only hope in defeating that madman." Sinister felt his skin finally shift, covering an inch of the hole yet leaving nearly a foot open and gaping. "And I was merely stating fact, Psylocke." 

"You expect us to have pity for you?" Remy asked, hate etched in every note of his voice. 

"I expect nothing from you!" Sinister said, too loud to be calm, too quiet to be angry, but it was sharply spoken, ripe with bleakness and condemnation. "Just as you are wrong to expect something from me. You came to me for a reason. What is it?" 

"My child ..." 

"And what did you expect? I told you stay far from the shadows. I told you not to cause undue stress. I told you to be careful. You heeded none of my warnings." Sinister grunted, though he tried hard to keep quiet, as his flesh moved again, grappling at the edges of the tear to bring itself together. "Your child is dead. Is that what you need to hear?" 

"I am not that far removed to know that you are lying to me," Betsy said carefully. 

"Then you know more than I. I cannot help you any longer. He has destroyed my lab ..." 

"Surely there was not just the one." 

"Of course not. I am no idiot, but if you would be so kind as to notice that I am wounded horribly, you will see that I am in no position to travel thousands of miles to where they lay hidden." 

Betsy frowned. "But your Marauders ..." 

"My Marauders were left to hold back Apocalypse, to die so that I could run like a child from his father. He has invariably slaughtered them, of course, and if he is smart, and he is far smarter than any of you give him credit, he will erase and destroy my copies of their genes." Sinister exhaled as the last piece of flesh touched and welded his wound shut, doing nothing to recover the amount of blood lost. If he would not die, he most certainly would be crippled for some time. "He came out of nowhere, knowing exactly where I was, knowing the exact moment I reached for a vial and left myself open. He made one mistake and that was doubting the loyalty of my Marauders and the power that they possessed. He is my example. I made them strong." 

"Yet you sacrificed them like lambs!" 

"They understood the importance of my continued survival! Listen to yourself, Elisabeth, listen! You know, as I do, that there are times when certain people must be given up so that the one can go on to conquer. Worthington knew that." Sinister felt the urge to be cruel descend upon him. "Of course, you firmly believed he would be resurrected, did you not?" 

"I believed no such thing." They caught each other in a silent stare, saying nothing but understanding too much, too many truths, too many lies, and Sinister smiled at her, watching the anger come to her eyes. "And you promised you would not attempt to bring him back" 

"Yet you hid him anyway," Sinister responded, a harsh smile on his silver lips. 

Psylocke's head snapped up, her eyes targeting him with rage, and for a minute, she could not speak at all for words failed her completely, leaving her grasping at half-formed syllables. Sinister resisted the urge to laugh at her and all her presumptions. "You went after him? You gave me your word!" 

"His word don't mean anything," Remy muttered. 

"You would have thanked me, Elisabeth, for returning him to you," Sinister said, a truth to his voice he knew she heard. She stared at him, her eyes wet, but she did not say anything more. He knew she couldn't without confessing the truth. "I had no need of him beyond a month of tests. I would have returned him. Does it alarm you to know you so easily lost him a second time?" 

"Shut the fuck up!" Bobby said suddenly, reeling back when he realised what he had just said to Sinister, his face twisted in an odd expression of grief and horror. "Oh god, if that isn't asking to be killed, I'm not sure what is." 

"If I was to kill you, Iceman, it would not be now." 

"And why not?" 

Remy snorted, shaking his head at the one man able to take offense at such a thing. 

Sinister stood up, leaning against the slimy, wet wall of the sewer as he struggled to remain upright. "Because you are both conscious and angry. In the far future, Iceman, you will rise to the day and realise your true potential. Until then, however, you are a waste of good genes." 

"Whatever," Bobby muttered, his head darting to the side and into the dark where it was easier to hide. Shatterstar, quietly learning everything as the conversation progressed, gave him one, small, millisecond look, his face reading neither pity or sympathy. Sinister saw it and laughed at them, too. 

"Sinister, I am desperate. I will admit that to you now. I am *desperate*. I need your help. Please, tell me where you need to go, and I will take you there through the shadows. I have done so much damage already, this venture will not affect the outcome." Psylocke looked at him, noting his lack of agreement and added, "and it will save your life." 

"My life is already saved," Sinister replied. 

"But you are weak, so if he was to kill you instead of merely frightening you, he would do it now, while your life blood is pooled around your feet and your heart struggles to replace the fluid lost." 

"And will you make me if I say no, little Betsy?" 

Psylocke grinned, walking to him as she dragged her finger along the cold wall, pulling strings of the blackest shadows on her fingertips. Sinister watched quietly as the darkness wrapped around her wrist, fighting to touch her, and she stopped in front of him, urging the shadows to slid onto his skin. "You cannot say no." 

Sinister looked at the shadows on his skin, feeling the bitter chill and sleek slipperiness of its texture as it stroked his face. It wasn't long before the metallic lips stretched in a smile, the eyes dark and angry beneath half-closed lids. "Then I will not say it." 

**** 

Allowing her to touch the shallow surface of his mind, Sinister led Betsy to one of his many hideaways, built deep under the surface of the Colorado Rockies. They were shielded far better here than under New York, but Apocalypse would still find them if he chose to search. 

"I will be fine," Betsy murmured, brushing her hand against Bobby's rough cheek, seeing how he watched her with worry. A year ago, she had dismissed him, but a year later, she loved him as her dearest friend. How quickly things could change, how quickly she had grown to love him as brother, how quickly he had loved her in return. "Do not worry." 

"If he hurts you ..." 

"He will not," Betsy said quickly, quietly, to stop him from uttering the nuance. Of all the people she had met, he was the only one undoubtably pure of that taint left by death. "You are not a killer, Bobby. You won't do that to yourself." 

One day, Bobby knew, he would snap and prove them all wrong, but he nodded meekly, watching her follow Sinister, albeit slowly and painfully, fighting to stand upright, into a dark room and the door close behind them. 

"Aw, fuck it all to hell," Bobby muttered, wrestling the light on in Sinister's sitting room. Yes, Mr Sinister, evil personified, shopped at Ikea, or so it seemed to Bobby, whose eyes first widened then shut in hopes that this was a hallucination. Sinister. Ikea. It didn't mesh in Bobby's mind. It was like a dream and a really bad one at that. 

"You as creeped out as I am, homme?" Remy asked, eyeing the futon with an odd grin before slumping in it, his arms stretched out so they touched the fantastically coloured carpet. "Seems the devil has taste, no?" 

Bobby sat down on the edge of the nearest couch, a trendy black of course, and propped his head up with his hands, exhaling deeply. 

"I am going to train," Shatterstar said abruptly, blades in hand, having decided that the least exposure possible to these X-Men, the safer his soul would be in the long run. How he got into this mess he would never be truly sure, but he blamed Domino. "And you are not a waste of genes." 

Bobby crocked an eyebrow, barely hearing the whisper, and his eyes, beyond his control, met the silver ones. Shatterstar blinked and turned on heel, quiet and contemplative as always. 

Bobby watched as the long, muscular mutant strode past him, the wild hair flying behind ... stop it! Bobby went back to looking at the carpet, deciding Sinister had hideous taste, despite what Remy might say, and he didn't move his eyes until Remy's infuriating grin became too much. 

"A bit obvious, Robert," Remy said, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. 

A momentary pause. "What are you talking about?" 

Remy chuckled, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly, placing it on the ground by his feet. He removed a cigarette and put it between his lips, lighting it with his fingers before reclining again, stretching his elegant legs out before him. "You, Robert, you are obvious. So is he for that matter." 

"Shut up," Bobby replied with a snap, knowing full well what he meant and was too tired, too stressed and too angry to be polite about it. Stupid Cajun, stupid everyone! But most of all, stupid Bobby for forgetting his place in this world. "Just don't talk to me, all right?" 

"He's cute, non?" Remy pushed, puffing on the smoke, looking straight at Bobby, who looked anywhere but at him. "I'm going to tell you a story, homme, listen up: once upon a time, a little Cajun named Remy woke up and realised that he was different. Not a bad different, Robert, but different. This was years before he realised he could blow things up." 

"Remind yourself never to write a book," Bobby replied quietly. 

"Shush. The big question, Robert, what are you going to do about him?" 

"Fuck off." 

"Some other time, cher, I'm tired." Remy grinned wildly, watching Bobby's face, hoping to see a glimmer of amusement from someone who had always appreciated his jokes before, but Bobby stared blankly ahead, his fingers twisted in his pants. His smile vanished. "Don't tell me you have a problem with this?" 

"Fuck off." 

"You know Bobby, I always suspected ..." 

Bobby growled deep in his throat, slowly turning his head, millimetre by millimetre, until he was facing the Cajun, those devillish, red-on-black eyes watching him quietly. "Do you honestly want me to hit you? Because I will. Hard even. I might break something." 

"You're serious." 

Was that surprise in the X-Man's voice or pity? Bobby couldn't tell, but it hurt him, cut him deep inside, deep enough to remind himself that he promised he wasn't going to do this anymore. He had told Betsy, so why did he feel the need to threaten Remy with death? Women take stuff like that easier, he thought drearily, Remy will think I want him. 

"Damn, Bobby, that story missed you all together, didn't it?" Remy leaned forward, cigarette between his lips, unruly hair brushed over his eyes, and Bobby looked at the floor, an odd look of hopelessness on his young face. "This is your daddy's doing, isn't it? Telling you that it is ... that _you_ are wrong." 

Bobby glanced sidelong at him, his hands clasped tightly together. "My dad told me a lot of things. It doesn't mean I listened to all of them, but some things, Remy, are harder to forget than others. Not that I need to forget. And trying to bond with me isn't going to help. There's nothing wrong with me." 

"I know. Just wanted to tell you that you weren't alone." Remy grinned, the smoke hanging from his dry lips. Should he push it or let it go? Push, he decided, and break down the doors. "Of course, I still like the filles, but the hommes are nice too, non?" 

"Just what are you trying to imply, Gambit? What is it you're trying to say to me? What is it you think I am?" Bobby's voice did not stray from its monotone. He kept it clear, calm, cold. It wasn't his voice. "What do you want me to say to you?" 

Remy raised his glance, his cigarette clutched tightly in his fingers, and he said very carefully, "I want you to tell me the truth, mon ami, so that maybe you can actually make a grab at happiness. I had it, homme, and I let it go. I don't want to see it happen to you." 

Bobby put his head in his hands. "Why is everyone so concerned with my happiness? Have I ever implied that I wasn't happy? I'm not like you, I don't brood and angst and drive myself crazy with the melodrama." 

"Is this the time to tell you I'm empathic?" Remy asked with a crooked grin. 

Bobby shrugged. "Yeah, I guess this is a good time for that." Bobby looked at his shoes, admiring the stylish intricacies of the leather. It was his hope his footwear was interesting enough to block out Remy speaking. "It's not a big deal, Remy." 

"The kid likes you," Gambit said quietly, "and you like him. What's the problem?" 

"I'm not going to be the token Northstar of the X-Men, all right? I don't want people to look at me and comment on my sense of style or the flamboyancy of my personality or my taste in impressionable young warriors. I can be straight." 

"But you're not." 

"No, I'm not," Bobby said, "but I wish that I was. I wish to _God_ that I was, Remy! I could handle being a mutant. I could handle being gay. Both of them? Seems sort of cruel to me, Remy, that I get to be hated twice. Fuck it, Remy, I'm not talking about this anymore." 

And he left the room. 

**** 

Betsy breathed deeply, and slowly as were the orders. She could feel Sinister's hands on her, in her, testing, checking, verifying the truth. If she was right, and she suspected she was, this child would not be with her much longer. 

"Premature labour," Sinister said without inflection in his voice, but she could sense the disappointment, the anger, the sense of loss. "She will not last a day if she is born now. The lungs have not developed properly, Psylocke. She cannot breathe." 

My daughter. Then he senses it, too. Betsy felt the happiness pool in her chest. 

"She will not die," Betsy replied, sitting up as he sat back, prodding his stomach for any sign of his injury. There was none, but Betsy could see the fatigue, the complete drain of energy from his body. He was not well. "I will not let her. She was a miracle from the very beginning and this will be no different." 

"The only reason she has not been born already is that my gift to you has kept her in there, but it is deteriorating at a rate that alarms me. Can you possibly understand what this child will suffer because of you?" 

"She will not suffer," Betsy said, standing up and cradling her belly in her hands. It hung low and heavy, and the baby was pushing to be free. It would be very soon, too soon, but there were always solutions, always miracles. "You forget who I am." 

"Ah," Sinister said with a cold grin, "but do you dare use the Dawn?" 

"If I have to use it, I will not hesitate," she muttered, walking to the door and putting her hand on the stop to steady herself. Sinister made no move to help her, to aid her in the long walk to her friends, and she was grateful for it. "And when she is born, I will make sure I'm far away from you." 

"There are no shadows here," Sinister replied, "I have made sure of that, Psylocke. You cannot escape. You have walked straight into your jail, and I will keep you here until you give me what I want." 

"You underestimate me, Sinister." 

"And you, me. Let us see who suffers the most for their ignorance." 

"Yes. I will." 

She walked out of the room slowly, her feet shuffling quietly against the metal floor. A brief, two minute visit to the mansion had let them gather their uniforms, but she had been forced to dismiss the thong and settle on her old uniform, the purple body armour she wore in Australia. The unstable molecules had expanded to fit her new physique and though she had faith the armour was strong, she had no desire to test it. 

Yet, he seemed to be goading her into confrontation, wanting her to fight. Was he that desperate for her baby? And if he was, did he realise she would call upon the powers of both heaven and hell to make sure he never touched her child? 

Who did he think he was playing with here? 

Psylocke smiled a wiry grin and knew that where there was light, dark was always there, waiting in the wings, ready to attack. If she only called to it, it would move mountains to obey her. In that fact, she had faith. 

And madness would only convince her of it.


	15. Chapter 15

Shatterstar had managed to find a space open and large enough to do his exercises, jumping and twisting through the air as his blades cut at imaginary foes. He realised the moment he was being watched but made no move to acknowledge the presence. It was not the audience he desired. 

"You are the son of the mutants Longshot and Dazzler, are you not?" Sinister asked, watching the youth arch backwards through the air and land in front of him, crouched low to the ground and ready to fight. "Well?" 

"I am of their genes. I am not their son," Shatterstar replied, backing away and falling back into his movements, his muscles contorting and bending with every slash of his sword. "I was raised a hundred years from now with the sole purpose of destroying Mojo. They do not know I am the fetus they gave to the banks to be harvested." 

"You must be very powerful. Dazzler had vast potential. I would be interested to gauge how much of that ability she passed on to you." 

Shatterstar turned to him, annoyed. "I do not like what you imply." 

"You are no X-Man. Surely you must realise that." 

"I see that I am here as a favour to them and for no other reason than that, and I will fight with them until it is no longer necessary. That makes you my enemy. Of that I am entirely sure. I would prefer if you no longer spoke to me." 

Sinister laughed a cold a laugh, shaking his head at the obvious foolishness, or obvious stupidity, the boy seemed to possess. Either way, Sinister was intrigued, as he always was, by the second generation, the children who were no longer mutants but natural born. To give the illusion of victory, Sinister left with Shatterstar watching him warily. 

Shatterstar shook his head and went back to his workout, but his concentration was gone. He could not focus, but he did not want to admit the reason lay with that madman. He stalked around in circles, thinking of a better reason for being on edge. 

"Fekt!" Shatterstar cursed, pointing his swords at a lone, destitute chair sitting in the corner and slaughtering the antique with his mutant power, blasting it to smithereens. Anger, one of the few emotions besides annoyance that he had mastered. It did not please him. 

"What's up?" 

"Bobby!" Shatterstar said, jumping and facing him. Had he never said Iceman's name out loud before? Is that why it felt so odd to say and have it ring off the barren walls? And why had he not noticed him? "I did not see you there." 

"People don't tend to notice me, I'm not offended." He smiled weakly, crookedly, alternately leaning on his right then left leg, shifting restlessly. "Remy is looking after Betsy. She's in labour it seems, but the baby probably won't be born for awhile. Sinister did something. I don't know." 

"Sinister spoke to me." 

Bobby raised his eyes. "Oh? What did he say?" 

"He asked me about my genestock." Shatterstar looked at the ruined chair, a thousand shards of splintered wood scattered across the smooth floor. "I told him of my heritage. I do not think I should have done that." 

"Probably not." Iceman glanced around the empty room. "What is your heritage?" 

"I am the child of Longshot and Dazzler," Shatterstar replied nonchalantly, trying to see whatever it was that Bobby saw. There was nothing at which to look. It was all empty. So what did Bobby see that so controlled his attention? 

"You are? But you're not a Summers?" 

"No," Shatterstar replied, sparing Bobby a look that plainly accused Iceman of insanity. "It is hard to explain, just that I am the fetus they sacrificed so that I could conquer Mojo in the event that they could not. It is all very logical." 

"They gave you up for that?" 

Shatterstar looked at Bobby and nodded, noting the alarm on Bobby's face and not understanding the reason for it. "It is not as though I think of them as my parents. I have met Longshot. I did not tell him. It is of no concern to me." 

Bobby hummed and shrugged. "So, you really gave it to that chair, huh?" 

Shatterstar smiled. "It deserved it. It was looking at me funny." 

Bobby burst into laughter, pressing his hands to his mouth as if he hadn't meant to laugh. He dropped his hands long enough to half punch, half pet Shatterstar. Whatever it was, Shatterstar decided, it was the proper move. 

"I knew you had a sense of humour! I knew it! We humourous guys have to stick together, you know. It's vital for the survival of the human race ..." 

Before Shatterstar could understand exactly what his legs were doing, he had crossed the distance between them and towered over the smaller man. Bobby looked up at the movement, his words trailing off as Gaveedra wrapped his fingers around his upper arms. 

"What?" Bobby asked, his voice low and throaty. He chuckled awkwardly as a blush crept up his neck, flushing his face. Shatterstar found his fingers were drawn to the red skin, wanting to see if a blush could make an Iceman warm, but he kept his grip. "Do you want something?" 

"Yes," Shatterstar replied, judging the position of the various features on Bobby's face with a serious, intense glare. Yes, all right, he would make the first move if the Iceman would not. It had to be easy or the act would have come with instructions. 

"I'm like warrior men, too," Bobby mumbled. 

"Then this will be all the more pleasurable for you." 

And Shatterstar kissed him. An awkward kiss at first, tentative and innocent, but then the arms came into play and the hands, warm hands, cool hands, mixing and twisting, grabbing and touching. It could have gone forever, Gaveedra knew, but not here, not now. They pulled apart, both flushed, both smiled shyly, not quite sure of the words to say. 

"I can see why people enjoy it," Shatterstar said finally and nodded in appreciation, his hands still on Bobby, laced lightly over the slender shoulders, holding him in the room and ready to trip him if he so much as moved. "Now you and I will train." 

Bobby could only stare in shocked amazement. 

And Shatterstar finally understood the limitations of spandex. 

**** 

Betsy smiled to herself, the buzz of Bobby's excitement in her head. Perhaps Shatterstar was not the ignoramus she dismissed him as originally. Perhaps she had mistaken him with Bobby. "You were saying, Remy?" 

"Nah, you aren't listening to me anyway," he replied, flipping a cigarette between his fingers. If he wasn't going to smoke it with her in his presence, he was going to use to it take his mind off his addiction. "Don't listen to what Sinister said, Elisabeth, about Warren." 

"It's not as if I had not thought it," Betsy replied quietly, stroking her belly thoughtfully as she closed her eyes, relaxing slightly. "But Warren died for a purpose, and I both admired and respected that reason until the bitter end." 

"I know. Just, what he said, he did it to hurt you, and that's not right," Gambit mumbled, scratching his rough cheek. "Listen, I would have come back sooner if I'd known you needed me, chere. I didn't realised you were in such a bad way." 

"There's nothing you could have done." Betsy tightened the ponytail she had pulled her hair into, yanking the hair until it fell perfectly into place. She was aware how tired and weary she looked, how horribly drained and lifeless. She had not meant it to be so obvious. "I did this to myself. I have made one error after the other. The first was letting Warren go." 

"You couldn't have saved him." 

"You forget my connections to Otherworld," Betsy replied coldly, tearing the elastic from her hair and letting the long locks of purple settle on her shoulders. "There is always another way. I was stupid not to have thought of it." 

"Maybe it was his time to go." 

"He left me alone and pregnant. How do you rationalise that?" 

Remy raised an eyebrow at the harsh anger in her voice, reeling back from the viciousness of the comment. "You mad at him, chere, for taking that road? It seems to me, Elisabeth, that you're blaming him for doing the only thing he could." 

Betsy shook her head rapidly, clutching her cape to her chest. "No, no! I ... do not blame him for wanting it to end." Betsy sniffed, feeling the hot burn of tears in her eyes. She thought she was over this, over him. It had been so long. "I miss him so much, Remy." 

"As you should, chere." 

"But ..." Betsy stopped as if she should not say anything more, but the time had come for telling someone else all that she knew. "Remy, there's a good chance my baby is going to be born with severe disabilities. Good chance! She *will* be born with problems." 

Remy stopped playing with cigarette and leaned forward, looking at Betsy's tired expression and feeling nothing but pity. "And you don't think you can raise her without his help? You aren't alone here, Elisabeth, we'll all help in any way we can." 

"She might die." Betsy sobbed raggedly, trying to hold the cries back with her lips, but it didn't work, and she thrust her face into hands, weeping quietly against her palms. "I can't lose them both, Remy, and if I do, if she dies like he did, I won't go on. Do you understand? If she dies, I will die too." 

Remy didn't so much as blink. He only nodded. "No one would blame you." 

"Oh, yes, they would!" She snapped angrily. "You wouldn't, maybe not Logan, but Bobby would and my brother would and everyone else, they'd remember me as the one who wasn't strong enough." 

"A lot of them would not have made it to where you are now." 

Betsy looked at Remy, hearing the simple fact flow from his mouth and understanding that he saw like she did, in black and white, in right and wrong, yet in reversal of everyone else, those who saw the light as good and the dark as bad when it was the other way around. 

"So you gonna have a daughter?" Remy asked with a charming smile. "That's sweet. She's gonna be a looker like her mother, that's for sure, or her papa for that matter. She's gonna be a fighter, Elisabeth, don't you worry about her. She can handle the world." 

"But I am afraid, Remy, because she is being born into a world of madmen who want her for their very own." Betsy stood up, a dull ache low in her stomach, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug. "This was never supposed to be me, Remy. I'm not a mother. That was Jean's role, we all knew it, but it's not her, it's me." 

"You're doing a fine job so far, Elisabeth," Remy said, "a fine job." 

"Thank you, Remy," she whispered, tears threatening to destroy her composure. It was all wrong, all of it, but he didn't see it with the clarity she did. "But Remy, I have to tell you something: the shadows will not give me my freedom much longer." 

She felt his head rise sharply, cutting through the air, and the eyes rested on her back, trying to guess at her expression. "And when that happens, you're afraid of what's going to happen to the little one?" 

"Bobby will take care of her," Betsy said quietly, putting her palm against her face to stop the tears. "The light hurts me already, Remy, but I bear it because it keeps me here, human and not undercloak, or whatever it is Tar desires me to be. I don't know why he wants me, just that I feel him here," she tapped the centre of her head, "whenever I let my guard down." 

"I should have come back sooner," Remy muttered, crushing the cigarette between his fingers. They had never been close, he had irritated her and she had been rude to him in turn, but he understood what it felt like to lose control, and she had lost control. "I'm here now." 

"Just in time to see my fall," Betsy said with a light laugh. "I am so afraid." 

"We all are, Elisabeth, we all are."


	16. Chapter 16

Domino stood up, ripping the IVs from her arm and heading to her neatly kept pile of clothes, dressing quickly and with little thought to the pain. Emma might be content sitting around and waiting for Psylocke to destroy herself, but she was not. She didn't care at all about Psylocke, but she had left Shatterstar with them, and she would be damned if one of her own got trapped in the mess. 

* _You shouldn't be doing that._ * 

Domino stopped the scream from escaping her lips, turning her torso to frighten the boy into submission, but he merely glared back at her, refusing to back down. "I don't care what Emma says. If I don't go now, bad things are going to go down." 

Chamber nodded. * _I understand. She said that you needed me._ * 

"Need is too strong a word," Domino replied, lacing her boots with vigour, pretending that she wasn't hurt, that Apocalypse hadn't gutted her, but the burning in her stomach, the sharp twinges of pain with every breath, reminded her of the bad shape she was in. "I could use your help." 

* _Then you got it._ * Chamber watched her dress, trying hard to appear cold, aloof, strong, but he was aware that she had lived a life and he was still young. It made him wary, overly conscious of his failings. * _I'm not much in the way of fighting._ * 

Domino looked at him. "Of course not. You're young, and you need training, but you're a powerhouse with a good head on top of your shoulders. You'll do all right, Starsmore. I don't expect anything more than your best." 

"I imagine we will be departing shortly." Emma shook her head at Domino's apparent injury, watching how the otherwise poised and fluid woman lurched and grimaced with every movement. "You are suicidal." 

"No," Domino replied with a grin, "just crazy." 

**** 

"So we basically sit here and wait until Sinister lets us go? What are we? House pets?" Bobby shifted on the couch, smoothing his uniform out over his legs. He had lost weight, and he hadn't realised it until he suited up. This was why he didn't worry. It killed his appetite. 

"Nah. We're collectibles," Remy replied, "the really ugly type." 

Bobby snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. Keep laughing, keep joking, Remy, Bobby thought miserably, smiling in denial, and I'll keep replying, jesting, making this seem less worse than it is. "You're the ugly one, LeBeau." 

"Getting us confused again, homme. Me, Gambit. You, Iceman. Got it?" 

"Shut up." Bobby smirked, his gaze moving from Remy to Betsy, who sat with her eyes closed, napping Bobby hoped, then to Shatterstar, who sat on the floor, watching them quietly. Always the silent observer, seeing things so clearly. "We should get some sleep since Sinister doesn't seem to opening the doors to freedom. It's gotta be late." 

Remy nodded, reclining on the futon and sprawling out comfortably. Bobby looked with distaste at the ottoman he sat in then looked with envy at Betsy and her couch. He hoped that she was okay. After all this time together, after all the months of only each other, he still couldn't tell what she felt most of the time. If only she'd tell him, he wouldn't worry so much. 

"I will stay awake and keep watch," Shatterstar said, frozen in position, watching the door. He sat there as the others fell asleep, Bobby snoring softly and Remy muttering the occasional French curse, listening to the sounds, memorising the normal noises so he would be able to recognise the ones out of place. 

As the night pushed on, Shatterstar's attention never waned. He had been trained to stand guard for hours, days if the need presented itself, always ready to fight and defend. When he was liberated from the Arena and its games, the Cadre Alliance had underestimated his skill and dedication. He went from the role of slave to the role of watchman, neither of which suited him. It wasn't until he halted an assassination attempt on one of the Cadre leaders that the eyes of power fell on him and realised what they had: a human-humanoid hybrid of extreme mutant power. It had been the first time he used his mutant power. It was also the last for many years. 

Shatterstar shifted his position but moved very little beyond that. He could still taste the blood in his mouth, feel the burning in his limbs when he remembered the first time he converted sound into plasma, not light, energy. Every time thereafter, usage of his skill had crippled him, made him sick to his stomach, caused him pain. It humiliated him. 

From what he had understood, Cable had come up with an idea akin to a thesis on the subject, was that his human mutancy was incompatible with his Mojoverse heritage. To his logical mind, it made sense, but he thought it was unfair, not that he was petty and honestly cared but that it handicapped him so severely. It also seemed too easy an explanation. 

He was unlucky. 

Shatterstar hung his head, removing the elastic from his hair and letting it out. Evidently, or so he had been told, it was not proper for men on this world to pride themselves on something so paltry as their hair. Women were allowed but men were not. Boomer had explained this to him in one of her many attempts to get him to hack it all from his head. Waist length hair makes you look like a queer, she had said, jokingly as if she meant nothing by it. He had not cut his hair. 

And what did she know anyway? What did Julio know for that matter? He liked Bobby, enjoyed his company and knew that this like would not wane anytime soon. When they came back, he would tell them all what he thought about them and their presumptions. He knew this world's history, he knew that the best of the Spartan warriors fought alongside their lovers. Alexander the Great had lived up to his name, and he took a man as his lover. 

"Fekt," he muttered under his breath, the word low and guttural like language of the Cadre. It was a rough dialect, with hard sounds and abrupt endings, like him. It had suited him, the warrior's life, it was perfect. 

Shatterstar looked up, catching the sight of Sinister and wondering immediately how long he had stood there, watching him like a specimen in some experiment he was conducting. Perhaps that is what this was, an experiment in which he was an unwilling participant. 

Shatterstar frowned. Why had his thoughts been of himself first and not the team? If Sinister had truly meant to assault them while they slept, Shatterstar would never have seen it coming. Worrying and fretting over human concerns and not paying attention to the task at hand! There was a time and place for that and this was certainly not it! And suddenly he was venomously angry at himself for forgetting the rules, for forgetting his promise to guard his teammates and failing them so severely. Sinister had come into the room and he hadn't even noticed! 

"What do you want?" 

Sinister tore his gaze away from Psylocke and focussed it on Shatterstar instead. "You can either give me what I want from you or I will take it. One move and you will be dead before you reach the door. No harm will come to you otherwise." 

Shatterstar wondered briefly what a real X-Man would do, would they fight or would they allow Sinister his game? Or would they have noticed when he came into the room and stopped it then? Shatterstar stood up, leaving his swords on the ground and walking to Sinister without a sound, careful so the X-Men would not wake up. 

"Good." 

**** 

Bobby woke up before the others, stretching loudly and looking around the dim room. Remy was upside down on the futon, his mouth hanging open and muffled snores escaping his lips. Betsy was curled upon herself in a position Bobby doubted was comfortable. 

Shatterstar was missing. 

Bobby sat up and looked around, pushing to a stand as if that meant somehow the mutant would miraculously appear. He didn't, but his swords came into view, discarded absently where Shatterstar had sat hours ago. Those swords looked lost without his hand to grip them. 

Bobby sat and worried, which is something he realised he did all too often, but he knew he had to fret. Things just weren't right anymore, and now one of them, the one Bobby had a more personal interest in, had suddenly disappeared. 

Pulling his knees to his chest and laying his head on his knees, Bobby's eyes strayed to the door as it hissed open. Shatterstar walked though it, his face empty and stoic. Sinister looked in as the door shut, and Bobby shivered, afraid and wishing he was stronger. It was so wrong that they were here in the lion's den just waiting for their own deaths. 

"He is as his name suggests," Shatterstar said quietly, nursing a badly bruised arm. Bobby's glance rested on the wound, his eyes rising for an explanation, and Shatterstar bowed his head, hiding his face behind his red hair. "He would have taken my blood anyway, so I gave it to him to make it easier, to simplify the situation." 

"Well, I can't say you did the right thing," Bobby replied slowly, "but I also can't say I would have done differently. You're right, once he wants something, he's not likely to give up that dream. Betsy's a prime example." 

"I should not have done it." 

"Listen," Bobby said when he realised how seriously important this was to Shatterstar, "you did what you had to do. Maybe it was a mistake, but it maybe it wasn't either. Betsy allied herself with Sinister, bad thing, but only to save her baby, good thing." 

"You X-Men seem to make the laws of good and bad." Shatterstar sat down on the ground in front of Bobby, looking at him. Bobby shrugged and grinned a boyish grin, trying be relaxed and comfortable but coming across as awkward and overly self-aware. 

Shatterstar sighed. This man was more deficient in the way of mating than he was. 

They both looked up as Betsy moaned softly, sitting up from sleep and clutching her stomach. In an instant, Bobby was at her side, nursing and protecting her as had become his role in life. "Betsy? Are you all right? Do you need anything?" 

"I have to get out of here," Betsy muttered, burying her head in her hands. She had been dreaming the most awful dreams, bloody images of the dead that scattered her past, and she saw her daughter lying with them. "But he has taken the shadows from me and has negated all of our powers." 

"No, he hasn't," Bobby said slowly, but Bobby tried to ice up, to call upon his mutant powers and nothing happened save for a lot of unnecessary exertion on his part. He scratched his head, puzzled and unable to explain one very important thing. "But I saw Shatterstar use his powers yesterday." 

Betsy looked at the young warrior sharply. "What?" 

Shatterstar nodded, frowning slightly at the way she phrased the word. "It is true. My powers are still my own." Gaveedra paused and thought about something that had been sitting in the back of his head since the destruction of the chair. "But they did not make me sick when I used them." 

"He can't truly negate our powers, only dampen them to the point they are minuscule, useless," Betsy said slowly, the ache in her belly growing worse as each minute passed. She had to get out of there, now, before her child was born into Sinister's waiting claws. "If yours are still your own, only lessened, you must be far more powerful than you let on, Shatterstar." 

"Are you accusing me of lying to you?" Shatterstar asked sharply, her tone harsh and bitter, and it angered him that she would make such assumptions. "I have never been power-classed as a mutant. To use my powers at their top level would probably kill me." 

"Calm down," Remy said quietly, interjecting as he saw a fight rapidly approaching. Oddly enough, he also acknowledged it had been started by Betsy. "It doesn't matter why he has them just that he does. Betsy, if he can kill the lights, can you get us out of here?" 

"Without my telepathy, we could find ourselves in any number of places, but yes, we will no longer be here." Betsy looked at the faces of her teammates, reflecting on the odd mix of people. If someone had predicted a year ago that she would have actually appreciated Gambit, relied on Bobby or fought alongside Shatterstar, she would have called him a liar. "Shatterstar, if you give me darkness, I can get us out of here." 

"I do not need convincing. I will do whatever you wish of me." 

Betsy stood with the help of Bobby, who supported her weight because the cramping in her abdomen hampered her ability to stay upright. Remy grabbed his coat and stood close to them, waiting for Shatterstar to make his move. 

Shatterstar, clutching both swords in his hands, began to hum, alternating pitches until he found the strongest sound. He held it in his throat, feeling the heat rise in his body then lifted his swords, pointing them at the two largest light sources. This was going to hurt him. 

A flash of light faded into dark, and Shatterstar called upon his powers again, systematically destroying all the light. In the distance, he could hear alarms, but the room was already dark and that was all that mattered. 

They were gone before Sinister reached the door. 

"This is not over," Sinister said, looking at the charred remains of the room. "They have not won. They will never win!" 

**** 

"I have them!" Emma cried, feeling Betsy's presence emerge onto the astral plane with a roar. She was walking when it happened and stumbled, losing all sense of where she was for a moment then finding herself in Chamber's arms. "I found her." 

Domino looked up sharply. "Where is she?" 

Emma closed her eyes and shook her head, not at the question but where Betsy had put herself. "I don't understand why she's there, but she's below us, in the tunnels, and the other X-Men are there but not near her. I don't know what she's doing." 

Domino looked at her teammates then punched a wall in anger. "Fuck. She just has to make things more complicated, doesn't she? Goddamn it all the hell! Come on, let's save their sorry asses before they're all killed." 

Chamber smiled as much as he could without a mouth and looked to Emma, who was rabid with annoyance and outrage. _*Charming, isn't she?*_

"That is not the word I would use."


	17. Chapter 17

She lost them.

She wasn't sure when she lost her grip or where it was she dropped them, just that she knew they were close and out of the shadows. They had only been a momentary thought, however, before she became aware of the reality she had set herself into.

Betsy found herself in the Morlock Tunnels.

And she was being hunted like an animal.

The shadows warned her of the hunters, humming so loudly in her head that the minute she got her footing she began to run, limp, stumble, anything that would take her far away from the threat against her life. They spoke of a madman who had poisoned their darkness trying to find her, who had done the impossible and hurt the Dawn. It was her he had sought.

Apocalypse was using the Dawn to find her. Betsy was beyond angry at the thought that he would use something she hated to trap her, and she was rabid that the Dawn, the subject of her hate, fought only to protect her, to fight for her, to warn her of the fact she was trapped in the tunnels with Apocalypse and his Horsemen.

And she *was* trapped because the damage the Dawn suffered prevented her from teleporting. Whatever he had done, Apocalypse had waited until she had used her shadows powers again and had caused her lose her grip on her teammates. It was all planned, and as usual, she walked straight into her doom.

She was alone and alone meant weak.

"Stop crying," she commanded herself as she flew blindly down a murky, wet corridor. It all looked the same, and she knew that she could run for years and never find the way out to the real world, but she couldn't run any longer. Her body was failing her. She had to stop and catch her breath. "I cannot let it end like this. She cannot be born here."

Betsy whimpered, putting the back of her hand to her mouth to muffle the sounds. Panting and wheezing, she leaned against the cold brick wall and looked around her. It was so dark yet the shadows could not take her away.

* _Silence!_ *

Betsy's breath caught in her throat at the command. It had come from the shadows, the voice cold and alien. She pushed herself into the corner, her fingers pressed flat against the wall as she heard the footsteps approach. It could not end like this.

The shadows, seeking only to protect her, swept up her body and covered her in a veil of black. The world darkened, but she could see through the cover as if it was transparent glass. War, the Horseman, had stopped metres from where she stood.

He looked around, scanning the hallway before moving on, not noticing the excessive dark in the corner where the pathway changed from north to east. Betsy did not breathe until he was gone, and she not move until another ten minutes had passed.

The shadows pulled back from her body, releasing her from their protection, and she gasped a sob, falling to the ground and holding her knees tightly to her swollen stomach. Why had it all gone so wrong?

And the only answer she received was the pounding of her pulse in her ears, reminding her of the life that she had to protect at all costs.

****

"Mon dieu," Remy muttered, blessing himself with the sign of the cross in an attempt to save his soul. A bitter thought crossed his mind but he dismissed it quickly, knowing that not even Elisabeth Braddock was cruel enough to purposely drop him on the bloody corpses of the Marauders. "Clone or not, nobody deserves to die like this."

Remy stood up carefully to avoid disturbing the bodies and shook out his coat, putting it on to counteract the severe cold of the Morlock Tunnels. Pulling a card from his inner pocket, he tested his powers then used the card to light the room beyond the dim glow of a lone bulb.

"So Elisabeth, where are you?" He asked quietly, noting how utterly empty the room seemed. He was undeniably alone, which meant that somehow they had all been separated and that was not a good thing to realise. Betsy was in trouble, severe trouble if she would split them up in these circumstances, and she could be anywhere.

Remy began to walk, choosing one direction and vowing the search the entire underground maze until he found all the wayward X-Men. He shuffled along slowly, careful of the debris and hazards the old pathways kept as traps for people who didn't know the tunnels.

‘And you do know the tunnels, LeBeau,' he thought dryly, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a cigarette. He lit it quickly and puffed unconsciously, taking comfort in his addiction. ‘I don't like this one bit.'

‘That's ‘cause you're scared, not just for Elisabeth but for yourself. If you were at all ever going to die, this would be the day. Apocalypse is going to kill you, LeBeau.' Remy paused then shook his head, trying to cast the dark thoughts from his mind. ‘This is all going to work out just fine. There's a baby to be born. Villains don't hurt babies.'

But Apocalypse would. Remy knew this as well as he knew himself, and it chilled him to the bone. It was amazing how quickly everything went to hell when the other X-Men disappeared, their absence close to a year now and with no end in sight, and left the team comprised of Gambit, Iceman, Angel and Psylocke. It was just asking for trouble.

Warren was eight months gone, dead as dead could be and Remy was glad for it, not that he was deceased but that he had not reappeared. Remy had feared the man was immortal, like Sinister, like Apocalypse, and he didn't wish that life on anyone, not on Warren, not on ... himself.

‘Yeah, that's it, LeBeau, start thinking about that now. If Apocalypse don't kill you now, he's gonna kill you in a thousand years. You don't want to think about that, not now, so stop it, boy!'

Remy shook his head again, wondering why he was thinking these things.

But he knew why. This was where Sinister had done things to him, tests, long, painful tests to determine why Remy's genes were so different from the usual mutant genes. A little tweak here, a little alteration there, and Sinister had activated his more latent abilities: empathy, agility ... immortality.

Just because Sinister said Gambit would live forever, or until someone decided to kill him in a very final and decisive way, didn't mean it was exactly the truth. Evil madmen had been known to lie now and again. Remy was sure Sinister made it all up.

‘You know it's the truth, LeBeau, and that it doesn't mean a damn thing here.'

Apocalypse meant death, death was finality, death was forever, but death was hard to come by, hard to accomplish with an immortal because life was so strong with him, so stubborn to leave and give up. Remy knew this meant a lot of pain, a lot of torture and suffering.

‘Remy, you're thirty-five and don't look a day above twenty. You should have told that to Rogue, Remy, you should have let her know. So many regrets, so many things I should have done. Rogue, I might die today, and I don't think you'd care.'

And Remy bent his head, pushed his cheek against his pulse and feared to Witness death.

****

Shatterstar was not breathing by the time Bobby was aware enough to realise why he looked so pale, and Bobby immediately set to resuscitating him, trying to remember his swimming lessons from sixteen years ago.

Life rushed back into Gaveedra with a gasp as the mutant lurched under Bobby, the eyes shooting open in pained confusion. He did not speak, and when he tried, no words escaped his parched, dry lips, but he leaned over, pushing Bobby back, and vomited, a sound fleeing his throat that sounded very much like a sob.

"Do not touch me," Shatterstar gagged, crouched over and casting his arm blindly backwards, trying to keep Bobby far away from him. It was only then that Bobby noticed the redness and the burns on those strong, muscled arms.

Shatterstar put his hands to his face then reeled back in agony, his face covered in the same sores that adorned his arms. It had never been this bad before, this devastatingly painful, and he was afraid it meant he was going to die.

"Why are you ...?"

Shatterstar retched again, shaking his head. He should never have agreed to it, to use his damned powers, least of all not when a power nullifier was in effect. It meant that he had to operate at the highest power level.

"You're burned," Bobby muttered, trying to approach him again, and Shatterstar did not move. He sat, leaning forward and kneeling, clutching his stomach, whimpering. This wasn't the warrior. This was the man. "I can help."

"No one can help me," Shatterstar whispered. "It hurts."

"I bet it would," Bobby said quietly, noting the room they were in and how it seemed to be lacking doors. He dismissed that concern as the least of his problems and immediately turned his attention back to Shatterstar. "Is it ... all over your body?"

"I think it is only my face and arms," he said quietly, his tall frame curled into a ball of limbs, shaking, "and my hair is singed, but where the costume covered it is all right. I think. I feel very sick, Bobby, I do not think that I can move."

"I don't think we're going anywhere. I don't see any way out," Bobby replied, looking around again and deciding the room was indeed without any means of escape. "We can stay here until you feel well enough to move."

Shatterstar looked sullenly at Bobby, his face hidden behind the veil of hair, but Bobby saw the blisters and the burns. He was still beautiful, Bobby realised, it wouldn't matter if he had nine eyes and horns. His feelings were real.

"Come on," Bobby said quietly, taking Shatterstar by the shoulders and forcing the body to straighten. Shatterstar let Bobby guide him, let the arms wrap around him, and he was grateful for the low temperature of Bobby's body. "I can use the ice to soothe the burns. It'll help, I think, if you let me."

"If you want," Shatterstar replied, the nausea back at full force from the movement, and he closed his eyes as his skin began to cool. He lay across Bobby's legs, cradled in the Iceman's arms, his head against Bobby's slender chest, and Gaveedra listened to soft beat of Bobby's heart, losing himself in the gentle crooning of his pulse.

****

"This is a game," Domino muttered, ducking as she entered the low entrance to the sewers. She was acutely aware of where she was and why she was there, but it was Emma who had put it all together. "Apocalypse has them trapped down there, separated, so he can hunt them. Look at the shadows."

Emma carefully avoided a puddle of sludge and looked where the light was absent. "They look almost alive." She moved to put her hand against the sheet of black, but it moved, shied away, like it knew fear. "I can hear a murmur in the back of my head. I think it's the Dawn."

"Apocalypse has done something to this hell," Domino replied, stopping where the corridor split into six different paths and relied on luck to the lead her down the right one. "But where the shadows are, Psylocke is close."

Jonothon listened to the women quietly, taking in their words and attempting to make sense of them. He had been briefed on the situation, and he understood the mission, but he found himself disbelieving. It all seemed like a dream, unreal and fake, but he saw the shadows move from Emma's touch, and he heard the same bustle of activity in his head.

He followed silently, listening to them bicker and argue over the situation, both possessing radically different views on how to proceed. He was here simply because they needed power, raw and inexhaustible power. He had agreed because, though he would never admit it to another living soul, he had a silly dream about being an X-Man. It embarrassed him, made him think of how to the others laughed at Paige for wanting such a thing as if it meant everything in the world, but he felt sort of proud walking with Emma and Domino.

Jono ran his hand through his hair, the unruly and often tangled mop of loose curls falling immediately back over his eyes. Emma and Domino had stopped talking, he noticed, and were watching everything with suspicious, edgy looks. He glanced around the barren passageway.

* _What're we looking at?_ *

* _There is someone coming in this direction,_ * Emma replied, using her telepathy, and Domino nodded, gesturing to an overhead hole in the wall which she thought to be a small but safe hiding spot. *Quickly.*

Domino jumped up then helped Emma scale the slimy wall. Together, they hoisted Chamber into the small space and pushed him to the back. As not to leave him completely in the dark, Emma let Jono look through her eyes.

The thought was to stay quiet, but when the shadows moved across the entrance to their hole, a communal gasp escaped in a breath of wonder. Sentient or not, the shadows seemed to be consciously protecting them.

Emma and Domino exchanged glances as a woman, or more accurately a child, walked slowly along the path below them. The girl stopped and looked around, running her spindly fingers along the slimy bricks.

"I see you," she whispered hauntingly, but she was not speaking to them. She had picked up a rat in her thin hands and was stroking its head tenderly, looking at it. "Are you hungry, Ratty? Do you wish the eat?"

The rat squeaked, and she let it drop the ground, watching it scurry back into the darkness and disappearing from sight.

"I could have made you hungry."

Famine looked up and around blindly, but Emma found her heart beating in her chest, terrified of being discovered. It was one girl, but the girl worked for Apocalypse, and they weren't strong enough yet to oppose him.

When Famine finally left, Emma closed her eyes and willed her pulse to slow.

That had been too close.


	18. Chapter 18

"It all looks the same!" Betsy cried, her words echoing off the walls with more sound than she intended. The shadows assured her that the hunters were far away, and she was, for a very short time, safe. "How do I get out of here?"

She half expected the Dawn to answer, to hear a cold and dead voice in her head telling her where to escape, but the undercloaks were ailing, sick and in pain. They were confused, sensing only where danger lay and not how to escape it. The anger at Apocalypse's actions welled in her again, and she felt pity for the shadows, for their suffering.

Betsy walked along slowly, pulling her cape tightly around her body in an attempt to get warm. It was so cold, and she was in such agony, but still she pressed forward, stronger than it, stronger than the forces that sought to destroy her.

It had been hours, she realised, since she had come here to the tunnels. Hours of aimless wandering, hours of dull aching and sharp shots of cramping, hours of crying, hours and hours and hours. This was her life. It had come down to this.

"Warren," Betsy murmured, "Warren, do you remember how you used to speak of these tunnels, how you used to dream of them? I didn't understand your terror until now, lover, I didn't realise." She paused, leaning her head against the frozen brick. "I didn't realise how hopeless it was down here."

She looked around, touching her fingers to her lips. "Warren, I'm doing this all for you, honey. All of this, from the beginning and to the bitter end, it's all for you. I loved you, Warren, I love you still."

Betsy brought her hands to her heart, the pulse steady and strong. "Why won't you come back to me?"

She gasped when she said it, blinking back the tears. It was so wrong of her, so evil of her to wish for such a thing when it was the last thing he wanted. He'd hate her for thinking such a thing, but she was so alone, so lonely.

"Warren!" There was only ever silence, but she remembered his voice, strong when he wanted it to be, quiet when he was at ease. He could have talked for eternity, and she would have listened to every word and remembered it all. "Warren, please, you've left me all alone."

Silence. Silent but for the pulse that beat against her fists.

Blinded by tears, she pushed onward, descending down stairs into a long stretch of dark. She walked slowly, carefully, attuned to the world around her. There were friendly thoughts far to the south, three of them, trying to find her, getting lost, Emma and Domino fighting, and the boy, Chamber, the rock. Remy was near to them, worried and fearful. Shatterstar was in pain, and Bobby was tending to him, like he had done with her. They were between here and there, trapped but mere steps from freedom.

"Oh, Warren," Betsy breathed when she stumbled into a large, barren room. There was light, though the source of it was mysterious, and she reeled back, hitting the wall and standing perfectly still. She knew this place, she had seen it in her mind every night she shared Warren's bed. "Oh, Warren, life is so cruel to me."

They had hung him here, the Marauders, they had pinned him to the wall. She ran to the wall and collapsed to her knees, pressing her body against the chilled surface. There were holes in the stone, holes covered with dried blood. The blood of an Angel, her Angel, her precious, beautiful Angel.

"Warren, I'm sorry," she muttered, bringing her hand to her head as she cramped again, but this time a heat flowed through her legs, and she fell back, breathing deeply. "Warren, our child is going to be born in the very place you died."

She tried to move, tried to stand again and go somewhere else, but the pain and the wetness and the feeling of loss was too great. This was the beginning, this was the end, and her baby, whether she was ready for her or not, was coming into this world.

"I can't do this alone," Betsy cried, throwing her hands over her face.

But she was alone.

****

Emma brought her hand to her temple, feeling Betsy's distress. Where was she? "Elisabeth is in labour," Emma murmured, her blue eyes wide with fright. "And she's still so far away. The pain is incredible."

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Domino swore, deciding that is Psylocke survived this mess, that she and Domino were going to work things out warrior-style. "I have never seen a more incompetent group of people. This is why I was never an X-Man. X-Force was where it was at. This is just ... fuck it!"

"Domino, perhaps you should do something about your stress levels," Emma replied coldly, grinning a calculated grin before moving her hands to adjust her uniform, white of course, flattening the leather against her hips. "One would think you are an X-Man."

"I'm not fucked up enough for that yet," Domino muttered. "I know the X-Men have been in these tunnels before, Nate got everything funnelled to him through Cyclops, but it all looks the same."

"Course it does. It's supposed to."

"Gambit," Domino said distastefully, watching the Cajun saunter up to them, lighting a cigarette as he threw the used one to the ground, crushing it with the toe of his boot. "What are you doing? Taking a fucking walk?"

"Nah," Remy replied, taking a long drag, "walking until I find the rest of my team. Don't know where they are, so I'm going to keep walking until I see Drake's ugly face. What're you doing down here? Vacationing?"

"Fuck off," Domino replied. "Because you fucking X-Men can't keep track of the more screwed up ones, we're here trying to find Psylocke. Haven't you heard, Cajun? The nimbo's in labour, and we can't find her."

"You have some anger issues," Remy replied with a smirk, trying to keep calm and rational though his mind was racing. "We better find Elisabeth. That baby's going to be born in a bad way, and she'll die if we don't get the little one to a hospital."

"What?" Emma said sharply.

"It's too early. Sinister said that she's not developed, so we've got to find Elisabeth before that baby dies. Not only that, we've got to avoid Apocalypse and his Horsemen. They've been leaving tracks all over the place," Gambit said, waving his hand around in emphasis of their distress. "Is she alone?"

"Iceman and Shatterstar are somewhere between where we are and where she is. She is alone, Remy, and in pain," Emma said quietly. Hearing what he said, what he knew about Elisabeth's condition, it made her worry more. "We have to find her now."

"Then lead the way, chere," Remy said with a grand sweeping motion of his arm. Emma smiled as she took the lead, and Domino followed with an equally flattering scowl. Chamber, quiet until this point, took third. "You here as the powerhouse?"

* _Yeah. Why?_ *

"There's always got to be one," Remy replied with a grin, almost offering the boy a cigarette then thinking better of it. Mouths and the act of breathing were both vital to smoking. "They been fighting like cats, non?"

* _Cats on bloody speed._ *

Remy laughed. "Welcome to the X-Men."

****

They hadn't said much to each other, though both were aware the other was awake, thinking and waiting. Bobby watched as the burns began to heal from Shatterstar's face and arms. He should have guessed Gaveedra would heal quickly. He seemed the type.

"I am sorry," Shatterstar muttered eventually, sitting up and letting Bobby have the ability to move again, but Iceman was saddened by the sudden sense of aloneness. It had felt nice having someone so close.

"What for?"

Shatterstar looked at him. "For ... that."

Bobby blinked stupidly. He wasn't intending to be dense, but it was happening anyway. He really wished he understood the problem, Shatterstar seemed so humiliated by it, but he didn't see it. "For what? Gav, man, you did nothing wrong."

"You are patronising me."

"I barely even know what that means," Bobby replied lightly. When Shatterstar only seemed to grow more grim, Bobby sobered up and tried to guess at what the warrior really meant. "You can't control what your power does. So it makes you sick, it doesn't make me judge you. I lost total control of my powers for awhile there. Admitting that using your power makes you hurt or sick, well, that's just a human thing to do."

Shatterstar shrugged. "I made you ..."

"What? Touch you? Wrap my arms around you? Try to make you feel better? What if I wanted to do all of that, huh? I didn't oppose much when you kissed me!" Bobby spit it all so quickly he didn't have a moment's time to stop and realise what a stupid thing he was about to do. It had come out so harsh and angry, not at all what he intended. "I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. I meant that in a charming, boyish, happy-go-lucky sort of way."

Shatterstar regarded him with a suspicious look, his lips pursed tightly together and his brow furrowed perplexingly. Bobby looked guiltily at him, but Shatterstar lost the smirk quickly. "It is all right. We are ... all good."

Bobby laughed with a wide grin. "We're all good."

"We should rejoin the fight."

"We should. Allow me." Bobby put his hands to the wall and watched as the ice crept up the brick. When the stone was chilled at the way through all it took was a quick punch to shatter the rock. "After you."

They exchanged looks and set off on their quest.

****

Emma rounded the corner then shrieked loudly, stepping back into Domino who elbowed Remy in the groin hard enough that it seemed hardly an accident. Somehow, Remy thought dryly, she meant for that to happen.

"Em?" Bobby said, grasping his chest and sure this was the heart attack all those french fries were inevitably going to herald. In time, his heart jumped down from his throat, and he blinked. "What's with the party?"

"We're here to save your sorry asses," Domino said, grateful to see Shatterstar, albeit red-skinned and generally miserable looking, was still standing, blades clutched in either hand. "Star, are you all right?"

"I am fine," he replied stoically, refusing to meet her stare, and Domino frowned, knowing something had changed with him and not quite sure what it was. He was definitely hiding something from her, of that much she was sure.

Shatterstar didn't hide things. It was against his ... everything.

Emma did a quick headcount. Six. Six! They were just as useless with six as they were with three or four. Chamber had power, and much to her surprise as she unconsciously brushed his mind, Shatterstar seemed to possess an equal amount of force. She knew from personal experience that Bobby, if pushed, could be a powerhouse. Remy had to be good for something besides a little romp between the sheets, and Domino was angry enough to be of use.

Emma frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. By default, that left her as the only truly useless participant of the little hero charade. Of course, she had a purpose and that was to find Betsy telepathically, but there was so much interference in her head, so much background noise, she was following whims and hunches. They didn't have to know that, but up until this point, her guessing hadn't hurt anyone yet.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden flash of white, hot pain in the back of her head. She clutched the base of her spine and a shrill cry departed her lips. She fell into Bobby's arms, and his was the last face she saw before her world went dark.

And somewhere close, watching and listening, Apocalypse plotted their doom.


	19. Chapter 19

On some level, Betsy was aware Apocalypse had found her friends. Emma had sent one, strong telepathic pulse into the astral plane before Apocalypse took her out, but it was the least of her concern. All of her thoughts, every bit of worry and hope was being focussed on her baby, on the flickering of tiny thoughts that raced through her head. It was tragically beautiful, and Betsy wept for grace until her chest heaved and her ribs ached.

Sweating profusely yet oddly cold, Betsy sat with her back against the wall, the scars of Warren's mutilation at the hands of the Marauders above her head where she could not see them, but her arms were raised to them, wanting to touch that little bit of him, that mark he had left in the world. She found herself realising this was what he had seen when he thought he would die.

"Warren," Betsy murmured, placing her hand to her head and feeling the fever. "Warren, this is such a bleak place, isn't it? And this wall is so cold, honey, how did you stand it? It must have dulled your pain. You must have been numb. Thank God."

Betsy's armour lay in pieces beside her, torn off with one last burst of energy, and she had covered her legs with her cape for modesty's sake if nothing else. She laughed weakly, imagining what Apocalypse would think, seeing her lying half-naked in the place where his precious son had begun the path to hell. Would he see the irony? Would he laugh with her? And where was he? Why had he not come to kill her yet? Playing with her, instilling fear of nothing in her, that was his way, she understood. She hated him.

Betsy moaned painfully, drawing her legs closer to her body and wishing the baby would just pop out, no pain, no stretching, no time. It was so wrong, so wrong that such a precious little darling would have to be born here, in the dark, in the filth of New York and their carelessness. It was so unfair to give her such a beginning. It would stay with her always, tainting her from the start.

"Warren, do you remember the first time we kissed?" She spoke slowly, writhing in agony and trying to pretend that was not the case, trying to be brave if only for herself. She laughed weakly. She could even play mind games with herself. That was the mark of a true telepath. "You took me flying. You looked so handsome that night, so happy. How brave you were, darling, how brave you were to bare your soul to me. It was such a beautiful soul. You were such a mix of good and evil, of light and dark, and it pulled me to you. You and I, we were one from the very beginning."

Betsy closed her eyes and hoped she would not cry anymore. It was such a sign of weakness. She then imagined herself in the mansion, delivering her child there under the watchful and caring eyes of Henry McCoy, where she had a chance to live, a chance to grow and learn. Here, Betsy realised, here she was going to die. They both were.

"Warren, Warren." How hollow his name sounded here as if he had never really existed at all, never living, all a dream, all in her head. "Oh, god, Warren, why won't you come back to me? I love you, Warren, and you came back for lesser reasons."

Betsy whimpered. "Forgive me, love, it is the fever speaking."

Her thoughts were frantic, and she opened her eyes to see the shadows writhing in turn, reacting to her distress. "I must get up, and I must get to the surface. I must not ..." Betsy bit her fist to muffle her cries, knowing how useless her thoughts were, how her child would be born soon, too soon. "Warren! Please! I can't do this alone!"

Betsy hit her head against the rock in utter frustration and stared blankly at the dull, grey wall. What a sight to die seeing. How dreadfully unfair. She tipped her head, her wet and sweaty hair rushing to cover her face, and she saw a rat.

"Come here," she instructed the rodent, and it came to her. Faint pink light touched its head, and she used its eyes to see what she could not. The head, oh god, it could see the head. "Go, you poor beast, back to your hell and let me die."

It scurried off into the dark.

Betsy was hopeless, utterly and despairingly hopeless. She had come so far just to lose everything. Her fever was high, far higher than was healthy, and her baby, her baby was a month early, heralded into the world far before she was ready.

"You have my luck, sweetheart," Betsy murmured, stroking her belly. "I know you are hurting, precious, but so am I. It's just you and me, my angel, you and me against this horrible, horrible world, but I have faith in you, darling, I have faith in your strength. Your daddy..." he voice choked on the word. "Your daddy was an angel."

"My angel."

****

"Where is the child?" Apocalypse asked, his Horsemen coming into formation behind him, and Apocalypse crossed his arms over his chest, standing with legs apart, overshadowing them all. "Where is Worthington's daughter?"

"You will never have her," Bobby replied, his voice strong and loud against the stifling sense of power Apocalypse held. "You destroyed her father, and we will not let you touch her. I will kill you first."

"You would try," Apocalypse said, "and you would succeed, for you are worthy, mutant, but you do not have the strength of mind to attempt it. My son knew what it took. He gave up his humanity for power."

"But he took it back from you and gave it to that baby," Bobby replied, for the first time since he was fourteen feeling the cold of his body, the vastness of his power. He was angry, and he was upset, and he realised that this power he felt to the marrow of his bones was what Emma had seen, had felt. He had just never cared enough. "What is with people like you? Why do you think that you can rule the world?"

"I do not think. I know. Weakness will not be tolerated. You will not be tolerated."

"No," Bobby said, "you're the one we won't tolerate."

Bobby looked to Shatterstar, who nodded and spoke to Chamber, guessing at Iceman's plan. The air was visible as it escaped Bobby's lips, and his lean body was covered in ice, ready to fight. Domino and Gambit were already gone, anticipating the need and moving into position.

Apocalypse stepped forward and stopped, watching with a blank expression as the shadows began to move, shifting along the floor like liquid tar. And for a moment they all stopped, watching, wondering, and it wasn't long until the shadows began to moan, an empty and far sound, a sad wailing from the dead.

Suddenly, with a loud screech, the shadows started writhing furiously, the sound escaping the emptiness the most hideous and grotesque sound that Bobby could have imagined, and he watched the dark lash out against his enemies.

Bobby knew what it was and was not afraid. "Betsy."

****

"Warren," Betsy muttered. His name had become a chant, and she found that she kept saying it, repeating it over and over again. If she closed her eyes, she could see him, kneeling next to her, telling her that he loved her, that he would always be there for her.

She had never felt more alone in her whole life.

Bearing down, Betsy pushed again, trying to push away her thoughts about the pain and the worry. Sinister had spoke of wings and frantically she chose now to think about the consequences of what she what attempting to do. If she had wings, if she was going to be born with wings, they'd be hurt in childbirth, broken, mauled, torn.

"Warren, I need you!" Betsy shrieked, pushing because she couldn't stop herself. She tried to ignore the wings, to hope that her daughter was born without them, whole and complete as she could be.

If only she could merge with the shadows, bid them to take her far away from the tunnels, but they were so sick, so wounded, all they could do was pity her, hide her, suffer with her. She pulled them closer, to touch the cold gleam of their surface.

"Warren," Betsy cried with a shriek, "please, Warren! Please!"

****

War cried out as the shadows attacked him, forming into a spike that was driven through his heart. Famine was already covered in the darkness, suffocating but quiet, not fighting, not caring, giving up. Pestilence was dead, lying face down in the pool of blackness.

"What is happening?" Shatterstar asked quietly as the shadows slowly crept up his leg.

"They're responding to her," Bobby whispered, his eyes wide as the dark touched his temple, stroking his face tenderly. "They can tell who the good guys are. Gav, keep an eye on Apocalypse. He's going to try something."

"He has never left my sight," Shatterstar replied unmoving, staring straight ahead without moving. Apocalypse had not moved, had not so much as blinked when his Horsemen fell, and Shatterstar had watched him from that moment forward. "They are not attacking him."

* _They are waiting for us._ * Chamber looked at them, unwrapping the bandages from his face. *I can hear the creatures in my head.*

"Then we better do what they want. Star, Chamber, back me up."

****

Betsy rolled her head, aware of the scent of blood all around her. Her blood, she knew the smell, and it made her gag to think that she was haemorrhaging. What an end, she thought miserably, what an end.

"Warren," she murmured, pushing again, pushing in spite of the agony and the blood, pushing so that her child would live in her stead. "Warren, please, my precious Angel, please, I'm dying. Help me."

Silence, silent, always quiet!

She screamed, "Warren!"

****

Apocalypse felt the ice first at his feet, a deep and penetrating chill that went straight to the bone. He then felt the heat of the blasts attack the rest of his body, centred at his heart, where it would have been. Psionic energy ripped into his head, and he laughed, feeling pain for the first time in centuries, knowing that he was right, that the boy, Chamber, was fit. What a glorious day for the future!

Another blast of energy hit him, but it was different, stronger, rawer. Apocalypse looked at Shatterstar, wondering if he knew, if he realised that this power he wielded so carelessly would kill them all in time. Fit and worthy, more than any of them, but stupid, ignorant. An X-Man.

Apocalypse touched his wrist and teleported out of the tunnels, taking his Horseman's mutilated bodies and vanishing, but not before laughing, before letting them see how alive he was and why they would never defeat him.

He was far more worthy than them.

****

Betsy opened her eyes. Blood, she smelled it, blood, but she heard ... she gasped and sat up, hearing crying. It was so dark, and the shadows had stopped moving. Everything was still and silent but for the crying in her head.

"My baby," she whispered, reaching into the darkness to grasp at the nothingness. She understood, she was in the shadows, the harm to them was gone and they would be all right in time. Closing her eyes, she thought of the tunnels and went back to them.

The light was dim when she emerged, and she could not walk. She could hear the crying, not with her ears but with her head, and it was so hard to see, to know where her daughter was. She felt arms take her and pull her totally from the underworld. She looked at the face.

She gasped.

****

Weaving in and out passages of stone, Iceman led with Shatterstar close behind, followed by Chamber, Domino then Remy with Emma in his arms, sleeping soundly. The shadows were leading them, providing the path were they were to go, and they followed blindly.

"Betsy!" Iceman cried, bursting in the room, the sound of crying loud in his head when he knew it should have been in his ears. He stopped when he saw the scene, his hands flying to his face and not wanting to look, not wanting to see what had been done again. It wasn't the blood that bothered him. He was used to it, but this, this he would never get used to. "Betsy, you didn't."

Betsy looked up, a silent baby on her lap wrapped in cloth, a ... membrane covering the tiny body? Like an ... egg? Bobby didn't understand, but he understood one very important thing: there were arms wrapped around both mother and child, pale arms, no longer blue, arms that should have been dead. And the eyes! The eyes of the dead man looked at Bobby, cold and blue and beautiful, and he knew, he knew immediately it was him. Warren.

"She has a pulse," Betsy whispered with wide eyes, crazy eyes, sick with fever and bleeding slowly to death and not even realising it. But Bobby knew it didn't matter to her, that she knew she could be saved. He knew nothing mattered but one simple fact.

"They both do."


	20. Chapter 20

Bobby stood on the edge of Muir Island watching the tide come in. The cool sea air was cleansing, and he stared at the water, taking in the vastness of the beauty, amazed that he had never just come and watched this before. What a world he was living in, what a world!

"I had never seen the sea before I came to this world," Shatterstar said quietly, having searched the entire island trying to find Iceman. Bobby turned to look at him, his arms crossed over his chest, and Shatterstar smiled. "I have been looking for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Shatterstar turned to the horizon, the angles of his face brightly cast against the green of Muir, and Bobby stared at him, memorising every slope and rise of bone. "I think I have been looking for you for a very long time and only now have I found you. I have come to ask if ... if perhaps that is what you feel, too."

Bobby smiled shyly, treading on foreign ground. "I think so. Gav, it won't be easy."

"I know. I have seen the news." Shatterstar turned to look at him, his long hair loose and blowing gently in the wind. "But I respect you. I like to be with you. You make me feel human, so it is with you I wish to bond. I did not know what it meant to smile until I met you." He paused, his fingers straying to where Moira had taken blood. His forearms were heavily bandaged, healing from the burns. "I spoke to Domino. She does not like you."

Bobby laughed lightly. "I've noticed."

"But she said that if it made me happy then she was glad for me, though she said Gambit would have been an improvement, that at least he was charming." Shatterstar grinned, pushing his hair from his face with one hand. "I told her to ‘fuck off.'"

Bobby snorted, quite unable to picture it but oddly flattered by the comment. "You didn't."

"She said she would wash my mouth out with soap if I picked up cursing. I assured her I would only swear for special occasions." Shatterstar looked at Bobby then moved to him, putting his hand against the Iceman's face. There were sparks between them and true happiness in spite of it all. Shatterstar smiled earnestly. "This will be good."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed, "it will be."

****

Moira stared at the X-Rays as Emma, Domino and Remy sat at the table, drinking bad coffee and fearing for their lives. She hummed and nodded, scratching her chin. "Aye, it's Warren, no doubt about that."

"Then what's the problem?" Domino asked, tapping her fingers on the table. "Last we saw, Worthington was sporting a pair of wings and blue skin, not to mention he was all there in the head, or so some people claimed. This ... thing we brought back, it isn't like that."

"According to Bobby and Betsy, Warren lost his wings a month before he died to a reanimate of Candy Southern. The rest, though, I blame on severe mental repression," Moira said, sitting at the table. "He does nae speak, but I think he understands every word. The poor lad is in shock, Domino, but yuir right. This is nae the same Warren. Any traces of Apocalypse are gone from his system. I have blood samples from before he lost his wings, after he came back from Apocalypse and now. The first and last match. He is as he should have been if Apocalypse had never come into his life."

"So he is essentially human?" Emma asked, standing up and walking to the pane of glass that allowed them to peer into the adjoining room. Betsy sat in the rocking chair, her hand in the incubator that held her baby, stroking the tiny chest as the damaged and undeveloped lungs struggled with every breath. Warren sat on the floor at her feet, watching with innocent curiosity.

"The physiological mutations are still present, but yes, he is human."

"Will he recover from the shock?" Remy asked, leaning back in the chair.

"In time, he should." Moira put a picture on the table, and Remy leaned over to gleam a better look. It was a photograph of a back, Warren's back most obviously because of the heavy scarring, but Remy saw something above the right shoulder blade. "Aye, ye see it then, too."

"What is it?" Remy asked, putting his fingers on the smudge.

"Tis been getting progressively darker, and comparing pictures, I had the computer print out what it should eventually become." Moira put the paper on the table next to the picture. Remy's eyes went wide, and Emma peered over his shoulder. "Ye all see it. Ye all know what it is and what it means."

"It's the mark of the Crimson Dawn."

****

Emily Alison Braddock-Worthington. Betsy smiled and stroked the tiny face, and the eyes opened, aware of the touch of her mother. Emily because it was beautiful, and Alison in memory of her best friend from the days when she was still young and carefree.

Betsy laid her hand on the small head and looked at the eyes, the irises a blue so pale they neared white. Blind. She had been blind once, but she had been telepathic, she had still seen the world. The world was going to be so dark for her baby.

Betsy looked up and met his eyes, seeing the utter emptiness of them. He hadn't said a word to her, and his mind was so tightly locked she didn't dare to initiate her telepathy, but she knew that he was her Warren, the man she loved, even if the others were doubtful.

But then there was the guilt, the shame over what she had done. She hadn't meant to do it, she didn't think that she could have done it, but she knew, she knew because he had the touch of the Dawn on his back. She had condemned him as greatly as she had ever been damned.

She had done to him what he had done to her.

They were even.

But would he hate her? When he finally realised, when he finally understood, would he turn against her and blame her for this, for his life? Was their love strong enough to overcome the dark power of the Dawn?

Biting her lip, she turned away from Warren then nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt him touch her, leaning his head against her thigh and looking up at her, his face haloed by long, golden hair, the bluest of eyes staring and answering her questions.

Their love was greater than all of that.

****

Sinister teleported into the depths of the Morlock tunnels with two clear missions in his mind. First, he retrieved the decomposing bodies of his Marauders, transporting them directly to his new lab. Unlike certain other people, his Marauders appreciated every resurrection they were given. They accepted the gift.

He knew by now that Worthington was alive again, which was in no way surprising. It was inevitable. The man would die a thousand deaths and never complete any of them, but the means of his rebirth surprised Sinister. He hadn't thought Psylocke would disregard her lover so blatantly, hadn't thought she'd use the Crimson Dawn for an obviously selfish means.

He chuckled. What a cycle they were trapped in!

His second mission was easier than the first. He descended down a spiral staircase, his cape flowing grandly behind him, and he entered the room, smiling at the scene. Removing several vials, he set to scraping samples of blood.

It was, after all, all he had ever wanted.

****

Apocalypse stood in the shadows, masked from the view of his wayward prodigy, letting him take his precious samples. Sinister had not the brains in his head to understand the secrets Apocalypse hid in Worthington's genes, but Apocalypse allowed this collection of samples if only to keep Sinister busy, under watch, in one place where he could be observed, jailed, hunted.

Apocalypse took one last look then vanished to return another day.


End file.
